Violated
by RebelByrdie
Summary: A series of twisted murders has the team following the footsteps of the bloodiest killer they've ever faced. When Sara finds herself defending the only suspect, she has to decide who her friends are and where her heart really lies.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** The Author does not, nor does she claim to, own the television show _CSI_. All characters, affiliated symbols and recognizable content belong to the rightful creators and the television networks that they are contracted to. All "original" characters, locations, events and circumstances are, unless otherwise noted, fictional. Any resemblance to persons: living, dead or otherwise copyrighted, are unintended and by occur only by coincidence. No financial gain from the production or public distribution of this story. The content is for entertainment only and no harm or offence is intended.

**Rated M for Mature: **Scenes of graphic nudity, sex, rape and some violence.

**Spoiler Warning:** The following story contains information and scenes taken from and alluding to episodes of _CSI_ up to and including _Dead Doll._ If for whatever reason you have not seen said episode, wow you've actually missed one of the better episodes of the series, and don't want to be spoiled stop reading now.

**Content Warning: **The following story deals with sexual and emotional relationships that are both heterosexual (mf) and homosexual (ff). It gets a little crazy, and I would love to tell you who's sleeping with whom, but that would spoil the suprise and all my fun.

**Warning: **It's rated M for a reason. This story is twisted and just a little, okay, allot icky. No really, scroll down, you'll see what I mean. Also, all opinions expressed are not a reflection on the author's personal beliefs or those of mentioned organizations and government bodies.

**Author's Note: **Aaaand I'm back. What's a summer without writer's block, a major computer malfunction and family chaos? So here we are at the beginning of another story. While the inspiration for this tale came from several places, mostly I blame The History Channel.

Thanks, as always go out, to my beta reader HoneyLynx86 for all of her invaluable input. My best friend Jenn for answering all the one am phone calls to answer odd questions. Last but not least, Cathy for being there for me.

Now, I'm done, so read and enjoy and send me some feedback so I feel appreciated.

_Violated_

A CSI Story

By RebelByrdie

_Prologue_

_He didn't bother turning on the lights in the cheap room. The woman laying limp against him, Abbie or Maggie or some such 'ie' name, wouldn't have noticed anyway. Markus dropped his evening's entertainment on the motel bed. Her black Versace dress and blue blood cheekbones clashed with the wild print on the bedspread: the classic and the trashy. He grinned as he pushed his hands through her styled blonde hair. Her green eyes were wide and unfocused. She was groggy and barely responsive and he pushed his hands under the hem of her skimpy dress and went up. He was as hard as a fucking rock. This was the best sort of sex, and all it took was a little finesse and trusting bar waitresses. Cougars on the prowl were the easiest prey. They didn't arrive with friends and they always left with someone. All it took was a distracted cocktail waitress and a __little unexpected kick to her Fuzzy Navel and here they were. He pushed the skirt of the dress up over her hips and tugged the top down to her stomach to let her breasts -- they were at least C cups -- spill out. _

_Markus fumbled with his belt and fly, one hand trying to free his raging hard on, the other splayed over Whats-Her-Name's bare left breast. When he finally wrestled his button and zipper down, he paused to fish the Trojan out of his pocket. He grinned as he rolled the latex over himself. He winked at the almost unconscious woman beneath him. "That's an Extra Large there, Sugar." His jeans were hanging just bellow his ass, clinging to his thighs. They were probably chaffing up against her splayed legs, but she wasn't complaining. _

_Markus pushed her skirt up farther and lined himself up for entry. It was so incredibly hot. The condom was lubricated, he was ready and the bitch wasn't going to complain so he pushed in hard and fast. She took him inside of her without resistance; she was slick, hot and ready. _

_Then came a sound. It might not have even been an audible sound. It might have been a quick alert in Marcus's mind. He heard it, though, a soft click and then pain._

_Markus had played hockey, he knew how to take pain. Nothing had ever hurt so badly in his life. He screamed. There was something __**hurting **__his dick. He scrambled and tried to pull himself out of the woman. Gasping and howling his pain, he put his hands on her shoulders. As he looked down, he saw two green eyes, sharp and focused on him. She was laughing. He pushed her down into the mattress and lunged backwards, pulling with his hips. His scream went up an octave as he tugged himself free. Markus fell backwards onto the mildewed carpeting and backed up, one hand blindly reaching for the doorknob that was too far away, while the other cradling his limp, bloody and mangled manhood. When his back did hit the wood of the door, he climbed to his feet, shaking all over and ran out of the room and into the parking lot with his pants around his ankles, screaming into the night._

_The woman on the bed, her belly slick and red with his blood, laughed._


	2. Chapter I:  Sleepless in Vegas

_Chapter I_

_Sleepless in Vegas_

Hands covered in protective latex, she twisted the brush in quick, concise and practiced half circles. The black finger print powder fell onto the plastic dash and – hopefully – stuck to the oils and waters that made up the fingerprints linking suspect to vehicle. It was the fifth vehicle she had processed, and the CSI would pull countless prints, in the hope that one of them would eventually match up to Rusty Hancock, the main suspect in the kidnapping of Cheryl Montinegro.

Sara pushed a stubborn strand of hair back out of her eyes and sighed. Their Witness hadn't been able to get a tag number or an exact make, but she had seen a small decal in the upper right hand side of the back windshield, three holographic crescents. The symbol had linked back to Three Brothers Rentals, one of the countless car rental companies by the airport. Three Brothers had eighteen white econo-box style cars that matched the description of the vehicle that had been seen leaving the scene last night when Cheryl had been abducted. It being Monday morning, all of the Brother's cars had been returned to be cleaned, serviced and re-rented before the usual weekend mega-surge of tourists. Sara carefully brushed the excess powder off and lifted six full and intact prints and several partials off the dash. The rest were, as expected, smudges. The steering wheel held a few more prints, but again, there were countless partials and smudges. Since she had already checked the rest of the generic car for prints, fibers and trace, she backed up and stood up outside of the driver's side door. There was one more thing to process: the trunk. She reached down, pulled the truck release lever on the floor on the outside edge of the driver's seat, and listened for the clunk of the hatch releasing. She shut the door and the echo bounced off the cement walls of the Brothers garage.

She walked around to the back of the car in three and a half steps and stood by the tail-light. Sara cursed the white hot jolt of pain that tore through her stomach as she looked at the open trunk. Six months and she was still terrified. It was pathetic and she hated it. She bit the inside of her cheek and made herself step around the side of the car and look inside the trunk. As she already knew, it was empty. Rent-a-car companies didn't even include a jack or tire iron. She ran her flashlight over the small steel and carpet space. Her heart rate picked up and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. Sara, just as she had with the previous four cars, made herself look and forced the bile back. There was nothing there. No matter how much her mind tried to put her own ghost there, struggling to get out of the claustrophobic space, the trunk was empty. Not willing to overlook procedure for her own pathetic hang-ups she bent down to her open kit and pulled out the glasses and flashlight filter she would need to see the trunk through ALS's violet eyes. No fluids showed up. She took off the filter, pushed the orange safety glasses on to the top of her head, and looked over the carpet. She looked for any stains or out-of-place fibers. There was nothing. She turned off her flashlight and leaned her hands against the powder-smeared edge of the trunk. Sara let out a puff of breathe. Another one down, and only a dozen or so to go.

She wasn't paying attention, the case had stressed her out, she was tired. Sara would make a thousand excuses later, would rationalize it, and file the incident away.

"Hey Sara." Two words made her jerk upright, which was a silly thing to do when there was a metal hatch hovering half a foot above your head. The sharp knock of pain in her head and the banging of her heart against her ribs made her pivot around, hand already on the butt of her service weapon, ready to defend herself.

Warrick looked sheepish and Sara felt blood rush to her cheeks. The hand that had been so ready to draw out her gun went up to the abused crown of her head.

"Jesus Warrick, you scared the shit out of me!" She rested her hand over her still thundering heart and waited for the sudden shot of adrenaline to wear off.

The green-eyed man ran his hand through his dark hair. "Sorry, Sar." He rubbed the back of his neck, "Day Shift is here to take over. Catherine radioed over and said that Ecklie was already on their backs about over time and the budget and blah blah blah."

Sara closed the trunk and rubbed at the knot forming on her skull. "I assume blah blah blah covers giving the Day Guys a quick rundown, going back to the lab, dropping our evidence, and signing out for the afternoon." She didn't even wait for his answer. She bent down and started to secure her kit. "Give me a minute over here and we can go."

Though she wasn't looking, she knew that Warrick was nodding, "I'll be over in the truck, I'm driving."

Sara nodded absently, her mind more on calming herself down than on his words. She secured the scant few evidence bags she had and after the ten minutes of quick catch-up session, she wished the Day Shift better luck then she and Warrick had.

* * *

She would go home and perhaps even lie on her neatly made bed, but Sara doubted she would sleep. She was tired and weary, but she would rather drink another espresso than do battle with her nightmares. She had too many demons and since the events of six months ago, her footing had started to crumble beneath her, it had grown more perilous. Her shield was dented and warped, and her weapons were dull and beginning to rust. If burnout had a face, it would bear a startling resemblance to Sara Sidle. Every time she looked in the mirror, Sara knew that. She had lost weight, she could pack a week-long Forensics conference wardrobe in the bags under eyes, the signs were all there. The Catch 22 of her life was that when she wasn't working she had to think and she didn't like being alone with her own thoughts these days.Sara sat, shoulders slumped, staring into her locker. She had to take home her laundry today. She didn't know what was in everyone else's lockers. She doubted they had half-empty five-hundred count bottles of Tums or prescription migraine medication. She had never had a mirror in her locker. When she was run down or sweaty, she didn't particularly want to see herself. There were, however, pictures. She barely gave them a glance. She didn't want to look at happier times, it would only remember of how far she had fallen. At least, she was drinking this time. 


	3. Chapter II:  Another Day At The Office

_Chapter II_

_Another Day at the Office_

When Sara arrived at the Lab, two hours before her shift was set to begin, she was immediately bombarded with information. With the last of the precious first forty-eight hours slipping away, the entire staff was working on the Montinegro Kidnapping. Though the fingerprints were still coming back, there was already a sense of defeat in the air; AFIS had yet to come back with any hits. A picture of the dark haired Montinegro girl was taped to the clear case board in the conference room and Sara stopped to look at it. There were also documents, notes and pictures posted up. One of the cars had given up a single strand of hair that was morphologically similar to Cheryl. Sara made note that the car itself was waiting in the garage for a more thorough examination. Jim, she saw, had already followed up on the name the car had been rented under. Surprisingly enough, John Smith turned out to be an alias.

Sara shook her head in disgust. They had linked victim to car, now they needed to link car to kidnapper, and they were running out of time. She took a deep breath and tried to center herself as she walked towards the garage. She knew that if she waited, Greg or Nick would be more than happy to process the car instead of her. She looked down at her arm, despite the fact that her cast and splint had been removed months ago, her elbow was bent at a ninety-degree angle and her wrist was held stiff. She straightened out the limb and pushed her hands into her pockets.

In the garage, she pulled the navy blue coveralls over her black slacks and tank top, pulled her hair back, and gloved up. She stared, the whole time, at the car. Jumbled memories went through her mind and the grinding in her stomach intensified for a moment. Sara stared at the car with unreadable eyes and fists clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms. She _would_ get through this.

Sara squared her shoulders and looked over the notes that Helen Myers, a lack luster Day Shift CSI II, had left her. Because of the lighting in the garage and the difficulties it posed, this car, like all of the cars they'd processed on site, had only been given a quick visual inspection. Pondering that thought, Sara went over to the metal lockers and pulled a bottle of luminol out of the left-most one. She hit the overhead lights and pulled a flood light over to the trunk. Going on instinct, she sprayed down the carpet and then turned out the floodlight. It wasn't blinding, but there was a faint glow from around the edges of the carpet. Sara furrowed her brow and snapped pictures as the glow faded. She turned the bright flood light back on and stared at the gray carpet. Because the car was a rental, there was no spare. Mitch, the eldest of the brothers owning the company explained that it was simply easier to send someone out to fix a flat on a rental than to worry about theft. That meant the space usually reserved for a flat was empty. She put her hand flat on the carpet over the general area where the spare would have gone and she heard plastic crackle. She looked for a lose corner in the carpet, and tugged it up. She didn't need luminol to see that the heavy duty plastic that had been shoved underneath the carpet was covered with blood. After taking several pictures, she carefully took the plastic out and laid it on the concrete floor. The sheet was about six by six feet. It was a common sort of plastic that was used for everything from professional construction sites to do-it-yourself painting projects. Hell, she had a roll of it in her junk closet at her apartment. Of course, this piece was not run-of-the-mill anymore. There were grass and soil stains that had traces ground in. There was the blood evidence everywhere and, of course, there would be fingerprints.

Her own fears forgotten, Sara searched the rest of the car, luminoling the interior, vacuuming, hoping for trace. She dusted the metal interior of the trunk, and had already left a text for Archie. She would need him to dump the car's GPS system for information about its last trip.

* * *

By the time Catherine and the boys had arrived for shift, Sara was already halfway done with the sheet. She had taken photos, laying out markers by smudges, voids and the full and articulated footprint in dried blood. On her hands and knees -- the sheet was too large for a table so she'd laid it out on the floor -- she was dusting for prints carefully. She had put the dirt, grass and grease samples she'd pulled from the plastic on top of Hodge's pile, and had handed the blood, hair and semen samples to Wendy and the DNA specialist was already running them priority.

Working clockwise from what she had unofficially termed the top or head of the plastic, basing that on the fact that she had found several long hairs there, she was carefully dusting, marking, photographing and lifting fingerprints, partials and even smudges. She might have continued working for several more hours, but the lights started to flick on and off above her.

"Give me just a second." She, in a practiced move, lifted the print tape with a slow and careful tug and pushed closed the two halves over the print. Sara held up the captured print to the light and looked at it. It was a finger, the middle finger if she wasn't mistaken, and it was crystal clear, a perfect transfer. She quickly labeled it, and then jotted down in her notes that according to her calculations of head and foot, she'd found Print 12 at about five-o'clock, two feet from the center of the sheet. She initialed the evidence and put it aside. Only then did she look up and over her shoulder.

Greg Sanders, clad in blue jeans and a black tee-shirt, smiled over at her and pushed off of the door jamb he'd been leaning on. "What is all _this?_"

Sara put her canister of print powder and brush down and wiped her sweaty brow with her wrist, unknowingly smearing black powder across her forehead. "Found it in the empty spare tire well in the trunk. Blood evidence, trace and now I'm lifting prints."

Greg nodded and came over to offer her a hand up. They both took a couple of steps back away from the evidence and Sara began to strip her now contaminated latex gloves. She walked over to the table where her cellphone, beeper and watch were. She had taken off her watch for fear it would scrape against the plastic.

She squinted at the time and winced ever so slightly. "I missed the meeting?"

Beside her, Greg grinned, "You so missed the meeting."

Sara blew out a breath, "Catherine and Grissom mad?"

Greg shrugged and tossed the used latex gloves into the trashcan one by one. "Grissom is well, he's Grissom. Catherine on the other hand." He ran a finger across his throat, "I suggest you run."

Sara rolled her eyes, "Well, when I hand over the evidence I might only have to jog away."

Greg grinned and looked back over at the sheet, "You want help with that thing?"

Sara stretched and grunted when she felt one of her vertebrae pop. "With the plastic, no, I've got most of it done already." She grinned, "But if you would like to go underneath the car and print the oil pan, and then go under the hood and get a sample of the oil, it would help."

Greg stared at her for a moment. "And I'm doing this because?"

Sara started to pull on another pair of gloves from the box on the counter. "The plastic sheet has a pretty big grease and oil stain on it. Now generally if a car leaks _that _much oil, it's going to end up sitting on the side of the road."

Greg nodded, "Yeah, like my first car. Ker-pow half way to grocery store one day, engine locked up." He, too, was pulling on coveralls.

Sara walked back to the sheet, "So I figure that stain, which is more of a splatter than a pool, is from over flow when someone was changing the oil in this or maybe another car."

Greg zipped up the baggy coveralls. "And do we have bloody fingerprints?"

Sara nodded, "We do."

Now Greg really smiled and got his own canister of print powder. "Match prints from the oil pan to the bloody ones on the plastic sheet, and we'll have a warrant."

Sara nodded, "Archie is working on backtracking the car's last trip too."

Hours later, with prints found, matched and identified, Sara handed Jim Brass the file. "He works for Three Brothers as a mechanic by day and takes the exact same class at the Learning Annex as the Montinegro girl by night."

Jim clapped her on the shoulder and tucked the folder under his arm. "Good work, Kid. We're going to the shop to pick him up. You want to come along for the ride?"

Since she had been the one who had dragged an ADA and a Judge out of bed at seven in the morning on a Saturday, done the leg-work and broke the case, she would usually jump to go in for the take-down. There were more important things to do this time. Perps came a dime a dozen, there was only one Cheryl Montinegro. She shook her head, "No, Catherine has a lead on where the girl might be. I'm heading out with her and Greg in a few minutes."

Jim nodded and already had his hand on his radio as they quickly walked down the halls towards the parking lot. "You be careful out there, okay?"

Sara patted her holstered weapon, "You too, Jim."

She felt the Captain's eyes follow her out. Jim was a dear friend, and in moments of weakness, she thought about confiding in him. Luckily, pride always won out over weakness. She didn't want to see any more pity in people's eyes when they saw her. Gil was bad enough as it was.


	4. Chapter III:  The Bitter Taste

_Chapter III_

_The Bitter Taste of Victory_

Archie had quickly figured out the mileage: the car had only gone three and a half miles on its last time out. They had cast a search net out in the four square mile area with Three Brothers right at the heart of the search grid. Their suspect lived within the area. It was not, as they had first hypothesized, Rusty Hancock the boyfriend, but another man. The youngest of the Three Brother's team, a mechanic named Trevor Wendell.

Trevor lived in a rougher neighborhood, a city built housing project where there were still racially driven shootings between neighbors, the drug of choice was homegrown crystal meth, and police were definitely not welcome. The whole area was on a work out scrub of concrete that bumped right into the desert, right under the airport airspace. Cheaply built walls were tagged with gang signs and young twenty-somethings were gathered on what seemed like every corner, staring them down.

Sara wasn't the only one feeling the tension in the air. Catherine had the warrant in one hand and her other on her gun. Even the hard-assed street cops they'd brought along looked around with wary eyes.

Greg leaned forward and quietly asked her if he should get their Kevlar Vests out of the back of the Denali they'd come in. Sara, somewhat reluctantly, shook her head. They were law enforcement, they couldn't afford -- she wouldn't allow herself -- to be afraid of a bunch of street punks. Catherine, confident as always, double-checked the address with one of the uniforms and he nodded. The uniform's nametag said C. Tristian and the livid scar on his thick-corded neck spoke of a brush with death.

His baritone voice was gravely and his dark eyes hard, "That's the place, it's pretty quiet actually. I don't think we'll find any witnesses." Greg lowered his dark sunglasses, "How are you going to miss a woman screaming or a dead body being dragged around?" Tristian shrugged, "We've got thirteen unsolved homicides out of here in the last three months, you tell me."

Sara pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. The dark tinted Ray-Bans hadn't slipped any, she just needed something to do with the hands she so wanted to jitter and shake. "He lives with his mother?Tristian nodded, "Yeah. Father's doing a nickel for possession and sister has a few entries in her jacket for shop lifting but the rest of the family was clean until now."

Greg looked to Catherine for guidance and Sara looked at her because it was expected. Catherine was, after all, the senior CSI and their supervisor. Sara could sense more than see the six-five cop roll his eyes behind their backs.

Catherine tossed her red-blonde locks and turned back towards the house. "All right, let's go."

* * *

Officer Tristian took the lead and it was he who banged on the door with his fist, "Alice Wendell! LVPD! OPEN UP!"

There was some shuffling inside and Sara could hear muttered curses. She, like Greg and Catherine hung back and watched Detective Vega and Officer Tristian serve the warrant and deal with the outraged woman. Officer Tristian led the woman to the sidewalk and she stopped long enough to sneer at them. Sara only stared at the raving woman and quietly wondered to herself that if Trevor was "the good kid" she didn't want to meet the rest of the Wendell brood.

It took only minutes for Vega and Tristian to clear the house. They spread out, Greg took the main common rooms, Catherine went to tackle the bedrooms and Sara went through the hall, looking for any trace evidence of Cheryl Montinegro or her death.

One of the open doors led down to a basement of some kind. She paused before she went in, "Catherine, there's a basement."

She heard the heel clicks and waited for Catherine to back her up. It was shift policy; no one checked a basement or attic by themselves. There were too many hiding places and not enough exits for one person to safely process. Gil and Nick had learned this the hard way. Though the officers had already cleared it, Sara drew her gun and knew that behind her Catherine did the same. The basement had been partially converted to another bedroom. From the car magazines spread on the floor by a single recliner, both women quickly concluded that this was Trevor's bedroom.

It was sparsely furnished with a mattress and box springs on the concrete floor, a working television on top of an older, broken set, a worn looking recliner. One wall of the room was taken up by a washing machine, a dryer, and a chest freezer. Sara quickly looked around. Though she could see no bloody knives lying around, she did spot something shoved in the space between the old Maytag washing machine and the dingy white washed walls.

"Roll of plastic." She snapped a few shots of it in place and then pulled it out. "Can't be sure if it's an exact match, but visually speaking, it's the same kind of plastic I found in the car."

Catherine walked around the small room. "A couple of car magazines, a skin magazine and a half eaten sandwich, it could be Greg's place."

Sara chuckled half heartedly as she moved her flashlight around the dim room. "I've got blood."

Catherine pivoted on her heel, "Where?" Catherine followed the beam of Sara's mag-lite to the chest freezer. It wasn't all that unusual, she had one herself, though hers wasn't as old nor did it have a pad lock on it. She could not fathom why anyone would lock a freezer.

Though neither of them carried bolt cutters with them, there was a rusted old set shoved in a storage closet. Sara gave it a test run and it squeaked and protested, but the oversized loppers were more or less in working order. It took three tries to cut all the way through the cheap padlock. Sara pulled the broken lock off and stepped aside so Catherine could open the freezer up. Sara watched the lid come up and felt what little hope she'd had for their case extinguish without even a puff of smoke.

On top of long frozen bags of peas and freezer-burnt half gallons of ice cream was the body of Cheryl Montinegro. Her eyes were closed and frost had coated her dark eyelashes. She was in the fetal position, her clothes were gone, and her unprotected skin had gone pale white with tinges of blue. She was quite dead. As Catherine radioed the new development in, Sara looked at the inside of the lid and felt her stomach lurch. There were claw marks, frantic and bloody fingernail scrapes through the frost and into the plastic and metal of the lid. The freezer was old, not the type that had a latch that you could open from the inside. Cheryl hadn't bled out, she'd been alive when she'd been put in the freezer. She had fought to escape the frozen, airless, and dark dungeon: her cold grave.

Sara looked down at the eighteen-year-old woman, barely more than a girl. In her last moments of death, she had curled into a fetal position in the tiny, cramped frost lined space. It was times like these when Sara wondered why she had been able to escape the car and survive the desert when children died. Why had she survived when Cheryl hadn't.

Sara pulled one hand down her face, trying to bring everything back into perspective. This was a murder scene and she had to process it. She unconsciously put her other hand on her chest as if that alone would calm the churning acid in her stomach.

She wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed when Catherine cleared her throat. "Sara."

Sara knew exactly what Catherine was thinking about, Lindsey.

"Are you going to do your job?" Catherine's voice was hard and Sara almost flinched. She shrugged and knelt down to get her camera out of her kit.

Catherine, though, didn't seem satisfied. "You okay? I can call Nick if you want." The other CSI's voice had softened slightly, but Sara jerked her head up anyway.

Sara could do her job no matter what Catherine or anyone thought and she was sick of being asked if she was okay. "I can do my job, Catherine. I'm _fine."_ The 'fine' had come out sharper than she'd intended. The whole thing had come out more forcefully then she'd meant. She wasn't going to apologize though. She watched Catherine's face harden and her ice-blue eyes flash. There was simply too much bad blood between the two women to keep the peace.

At one time, Sara had thought that they had reached some kind of peace. She'd been wrong. She didn't remember doing anything to break their truce. Truth be known, Sara had a strong suspicion it was rooted in her and Gil's relationship. It was something she was willing to talk about with Catherine. After all, just because their reproductive parts were both on the inside, didn't mean they were friends.

Neither woman would back down and apologizing was absolutely out of the question. After all, there was no reason to break a long running tradition. Sara turned away and started to snap pictures of the grisly scene. Her eyes were less likely to leak tears and her brain less likely to stew if it was behind a camera.

Behind her Catherine grumbled, "What the _hell_ is the matter with you _now_?"

Sara grit her teeth and didn't answer. Mentally she was already berating herself. This was _exactly_ what she had needed, another pissing match with Catherine Willows. Damn.

Without insect life, accurate internal body temperature, or lividity to follow, David Phillips hadn't been able to pinpoint an exact time of death. Not that it mattered all that much. They had a slam-dunk case. They had a solid case against Trevor Wendell -- he would go down for murder. It was a bittersweet victory, though. Sara watched David wheel the body out in a black cadaver bag. If they, she, had been a little faster and a little smarter, they might have been able to save Cheryl.


	5. Chapter IV:  Getting Freaky

_Chapter IV_

_Getting Freaky_

The Vegas Central Police Station was home to one of the top rated forces in the country. It was, like most police and fire stations, slightly behind the times. That meant the large locker room was on an informal time-share system. The lockers were split; women's to one side of the room, men to the other. Of course the men's half was much larger than the women's, so the men tended to forget the rules about sharing.

All in all, it didn't bother Sofia Curtis too much. As long as a rookie didn't peek down her row to catch her with her shirt off, she was fine. Being a Detective, though, she didn't change her clothes every single day like SWAT or Street cops did. That didn't mean her locker was empty. The blue steel locker was stuffed with the odds and ends of her life and the job she did. As a CSI, she had learned to have at least one complete, down to the shoes, spare outfit that would do just as well on camera as it would in a dumpster. Her vest had also been shoved in along with her gym bag, an LVPD windbreaker, baseball cap and a bulky gun belt complete with cuffs, club, spray, and holster she'd saved from her uniform days. The eye level shelf held a mini-pharmacy, everything from extra strength Advil to shampoo to concealer and lipstick, and her box of plastic wrapped toothpicks.

The inside door of the locker had a small mirror and a few pictures taped to the inside. One of hers and her mother's before things had become too tense between them to even fake smiles.

Sofia stared at the Polaroid for a minute. She had just come back to Vegas, just joined Jim Brass's Homicide Squad. It was a hell of a way to start a new page of her jacket. She had expected Vice -- they were always looking for female badges -- or White Collar. She had been more than pleased to land Homicide. Then again, she'd been working Homicides for years from the Forensic side at least. Hell, she had been acting supervisor of Days at one point and her mother had hated that. Granted she hadn't wanted to be a CSI, but it had been a challenge. A challenge she had taken on head-first. Too bad Ecklie had decided to shove his nose in where it really didn't belong. Being packed off to the third shift had been a demotion, an undeserved one. That had been when the tension had started to get at her. Her mother's constant commentary on her life had bared down on her. Leaving for Boulder City had been a relief.

Not to say that all of her time on the Graveyard Shift had been bad. A small smile slid across the Detective's face. Another picture on the inside of her locker reminded her that there had been some good things. It was of some party back when she was at the Crime Lab. Damned if she could remember whose birthday it had been, but Greg had been trying to feed her cake, or maybe it had just been a handful of icing. Sara, who looked innocent and oblivious in the snapshot, had actually been blocking her in so Greg could get her. On the far left, Jim was trying not to laugh and failing miserably.

She had made friends during her stint on Nights. Greg Sanders for one. He was like a goofy puppy growing into his big paws. It was almost sad to see him mature into a serious CSI. Some days she missed his constant chatter and, yes, even his not-so-subtle come-ons. There had also been Gil Grissom, Greg's polar opposite in so many ways. Mysterious, intelligent, and just a little over-obsessed with creatures that had far too many legs. Then there was Sara Sidle. In the photo, her face was half cast in shadow. Sofia personally thought that was right. The moody brunette always seemed to hold parts of herself back, as though she was afraid to come out into the light completely. The picture had caught her mid-laugh.

Laughter wasn't something Sofia had heard or done a lot of lately. There were two other pictures on the inside of the locker door. She had photo-copied the ID photos of Officers Bell and Kamen from their jackets. Those pictures reminded that the decisions made every day could be the difference between life and death.

The picture of her mother was to remind her of what was expected of her. The pictures of Bell and Kamen were to remind her of her responsibilities. The picture of her friends was to remind her that in the midst of death there was life and laughter. Luckily for her, this was not one of the days she desperately needed to remember any of those important things. Of course, she was just coming on to shift. Sofia gave one last glance to the mirror before shutting the door. At 37 she didn't look bad at all.

Since she'd timed her arrival right she didn't have to navigate past a gaggle of half naked cops on her way out; that was a definite relief. The walk from the locker room to the Homicide Bullpen was filled with quick greetings and acknowledgments. She skirted around perps being marched down to central booking and, out of habit, checked to see which interrogation rooms were in use.

Unlike the locker room, the collection of rooms and floorspace assigned to Homicide, one of the largest departments within the LVPD was loud and bustling, chugging along at its normal, chaotic pace. Her desk was neat and ordered, just as she'd left it, but her in-box was crammed full. She shuffled through the papers and sorted them out by level of priority. A few desks over, Vega was putting a case to bed. He was slowly filling a thick binder with the photos, notes, forms and other assorted flotsam of a case.

Sofia couldn't see the name or case number on the binder that was the murder-book. "Close one?"

Vega looked up and she saw the circles of fatigue under his eyes. "We found the Montinegro girl in a freezer today."

Sofia blew out a sigh. She hadn't been on the case, but it was always a blow to have a Kidnapping turn Homicide on you. Vega closed the book and put it in a box that would join the Forensic Evidence to be hauled down to the District Attorney's Office.

A combination of knowing Vega's personality and what must have been going through his mind kept Sofia from commenting. She took care of some quick paperwork, and wrote down a quick note on her month-at-a-glance calendar. She was testifying on the Pendansky Case and the trial date had finally been set, so she would be testifying somewhere around the twenty-fifth of the month. Of course, she was scheduled off on the twenty-fifth, no shock there. She had been at her desk about fifteen minutes when Jim came out of his office with a handful of case assignments in his hand. He first went to the squad rooms coffee maker and filled his mug with the caffeinated sludge that kept them all going.

Captain Brass looked them all over a moment and then put his mug down. She didn't pay attention to most of the assignments. Only when her name was called did she look up from her paperwork. He had only one sheet left in his hand. "Sofia, you're with me."

As always when they worked together, Jim let her drive. She pulled out of the lot and shot him a sidelong glance. "So what have we got?"

* * *

They saw the blue lights before anything else. Sofia held back a sigh. The crime scene was practically in the middle of The Strip. "Damn Sam Braun." 

It was the newest LVPD curse. Sam Braun's empty lot, the one that had been home to The Rampart, had become a criminal playground. The construction had halted while his legal matters were handled. Between building supplies, open trenches that would soon hold cement and steel footers for a foundation, rubble and construction crew trailers there were plenty of hidey-holes for drug deals, hookups, hold ups, and body dumps. Sofia pulled into the now familiar area that had been cordoned off for parking.

She and Brass got out of the unmarked Sedan and she asked the first and most useless question, "Where was security?"

Brass chuckled. The question was a Department joke. The one night security guard was never around, obviously.

Sofia went into her trouser pocket and pulled out one of the toothpicks, slid it out of the wrapper and flicked the empty plastic back into the car. "How many bodies have we caught out of this dump?"

The shadows and reflections of neon played games across the expanse of equipment, trailers, and debris. Brass only shook his head, "I've lost count." So had she. The gravel crunched under her boots as they walked across the lot to the yellow tape. A uniform that she knew by face but not name lifted the tape. Usually the big brave men of the force told her if it was a messy scene. To her surprise the uniform reached out and touched Brass's shoulder. "Um, Captain, I just wanted to warn you, it's a messy scene."

Brass chuckled at the sentiment and they both ducked under the tape.

Someone, she guessed one of the uniforms, had set up floodlights to light the way. It wasn't long until they saw David Phillips, the coroner, and another group of uniforms. The only officer standing close to the body with Super Dave was a female. The men were several feet away.

The scene _was_ grisly, but Sofia had seen much worse. A man and a woman, both dead. The woman was mostly nude and the man had his pants down around his ankles. What kept this from being a "normal" John Gone Wrong was the position of the bodies. The woman was lying prone on the ground, only her shoulders and head were propped at an odd angle against what appeared to be an electrical building. The John was lying on top of her. Their corpses were still in _the_ position. It was like walking in on one of the morbid sex turned murder scenes from the slasher films of the seventies and eighties.

She moved the flashlight down and suddenly understood why most of the men were standing back. The two bodies weren't simply posed to appear they were mid-coitus, they _were _mid-coitus. The man's penis was still inside the woman and there was at least a liter of blood between their legs.

Beside her Jim laughed weakly, "I've heard of them having teeth, but this is-" He didn't even finish.

Sofia looked around, "CSIs here yet?"

An unusually pale David shook his head. "Not yet, and I wish they'd hurry."

Sofia crouched down by the two bodies and was immediately hit with the stench of blood, urine and feces, the wretched and nauseating stench of murder. "Do you have a T.O.D yet?"

David looked up at the dark sky as if that would give him answers. "The male registers at 91.56 and the female at 91.36, taking the day's heat in account, two degrees for the first hour and a degree and a half for every hour there after, these two have been dead about four and a half hours, give or take for biological irregularities in temperature. Now I can't be sure, but I'm pretty sure that she died first and was quickly followed by him."

Sofia nodded and looked at the scene again. "How are they still connected? He should have gone flaccid shortly after death, I've never heard of rigor mortis doing this." She waved her toothpick around the connected couple to illustrate her point. Sofia scowled down at the large puddle of blood on the ground then back at David.

The Coroner wiped the long thermometer he'd used. "I don't know. All I do know right now is that they're stuck together."

Sofia blinked, "Excuse me? They're _stuck_?

He nodded, "When I was taking temps I tried to move him to get a better angle and there was resistance."

"So what you're telling me is that he can't… that you can't pull him out?"

David nodded and Sofia chuckled. Just when she thought she'd seen everything, Las Vegas proved her wrong

Authors Note: Well that was a strangly enjoyable chapter to write. I liked 'Dead Doll' but after that the episodes have been hit and miss for me. So I'm picking out the bits I like and leaving out the bits I don't. So Sam's Playground was born. Speaking of being born, my sister is about to make me an aunt, again. That's what happens when you have four sisters and two brothers, it never ends. So early welcome to Chase Jayden. Now I'm going to sniff out some left over Halloween candy.


	6. Chapter V:  The Playground

_Chapter V_

_The Playground_

The empty space that had held the Rampart at one time had picked up a bad reputation for good reasons. It was a pit where they found a body every week or so.

When they arrived, Greg sighed dramatically "I just got the concrete dust out of my boots from last time."

Sara smirked, "Welcome back to Sam's Playground."

She only hoped Greg didn't start spouting off odd facts about Vegas' less than reputable past. They ducked under the neon yellow crime tape and carried their kits from the outlying area that was used for parking -- CSI had been there so much they'd almost claimed a parking spot at this point -- and followed a uniform's lead. The gravel and crusty dust crunched under their boots as they went. Sara was snapping on her gloves and didn't catch whatever it was the uniform had told Greg. She shook her head; knowing Greg, she probably didn't want to know.

The assignment slip hadn't provided that much information on what to expect. Going on what she did know: two dbs, one male and one female, it sounded like a trick roll gone wrong. It wouldn't be the first time that month they'd pulled a trick roll out of the Playground.

She took out her camera and checked the night-flash as she walked. They worked their way across the mostly abandoned construction site, wary of sinkholes and sharp pieces of rebar that had been left where they'd fallen. Their crime scene was around the outskirts of the main construction zone, close to the center of the site. There were more people here, and more floodlights to keep them from tripping and planting their faces in evidence. Sara caught the scent of the crime long before she saw it. Cement dust, exhaust from the nearby car-packed Strip, sweat left over from the one hundred and twelve degrees day, the tacky polish on the uni's shoes and over it all was a thick invisible fog of death. The metal tang of blood and foul, stenches of death, smeared the clear night and assaulted her nose. As they came closer, Greg and Sara first caught sight of the coroner and the detectives.

Sara, a half step ahead, spoke first, "What have we got?"

Sofia's back had been to them, but Sara saw a slight smile on her face when the blonde woman looked at them over her shoulder. "You've got to see this one to believe it."

Sofia had worked as a CSI, albeit a day shift CSI, but a CSI never the less, and a detective. If she said it was interesting, Sara wanted to see. She put her kit down on the hard-packed ground and moved around to see for herself. In her years of working murder scenes, she had never seen anything quite like it. Camera momentarily forgotten, Sara moved closer to the bodies, minding the evidence only by habit rather than thought. David ran through what he knew, from positioning to time of death. His words were registered in her mind for later discussion, but the majority of her concentration was on the scene before her.

The two bodies were posed in a mock-up of sex. Sara noted that the woman, Jane Doe, was nude. That was unusual in itself; a hooker never shed all of her clothes on a street pickup.

Sara moved her flashlight around, "Greg we've got clothes." The younger CSI moved over to them.

Sofia nodded, "They were left undisturbed."

Sara nodded and let Greg handle their processing. She turned back to the corpses. "They were found in this position?" She didn't even wait for an answer, she continued, carefully picking her way around the two bodies. Sara cocked her head to a new angle. "They're still together? When he died his muscles wouldn't have supported him and her positing isn't cradled enough to really take it either." She looked at David, "What's holding them together?"

Sofia chuckled, "That's what Dave's been obsessing about for the last ten minutes or so."

Greg, a yard or so away processing what were presumably the woman's clothes, looked up, "_Natural_ adhesive, maybe?" Sara and Sofia both, without knowledge of the other's action, rolled their eyes.

Sofia took the toothpick out of her mouth, "Has _your_ natural adhesive ever caused two people to bleed out, Sanders?"

Sara stifled a chuckle and David looked up at them, "No ID on either body."

Jim sighed, "They never make it easy." The older detective straightened up and was proud of himself for not grunting when his right knee popped loud enough for everyone to hear. "The guy looks like a run of the mill scumbag, but the girl doesn't look like a street walker to me."

Greg moved back over to the bloody primary scene with brown paper evidence bags in hand. "Designer jeans in size four, _American Eagle_ tee shirt, extra small." He blew out a breath, "Underwear was _Hanes Her Way_."

The investigators looked at the dead woman. "She wasn't a hooker." Sofia's voice was even and almost monotonous. She had bitten her toothpick in half.

Sara went down to one knee and framed up a shot of the unnamed woman's face. "Petecheal hemorrhaging and peri-mortem bruising around her neck." She pushed a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, "How long have they been here?"

David glanced down at his notes. "They were found an hour and a half ago." Jim grunted, "By two good Samaritans who declined to hang around and talk to us."

Sara moved to get a wider photo. The male victim was on top of the woman. It was as though he had collapsed on her. His arms were draped over her shoulders and his face had fallen on her chest. His cheek was on her left breast, his face half hidden against it. John Doe had been on his knees, straddling the woman, his pants still half on. Sara lifted one of his hands; it was covered with dry blood. Sara moved around the two bodies taking pictures while Greg marked the edges of the blood pool and worked a small grid search around the scene.

Once they had finished processing the immediate area, Sara looked at Dave. "Okay, let's lay them out." They of course, were the bodies. Greg, who had been sketching the layout of the crime scene, and Jim who had been talking to a pair of uniforms, along with Sofia who had been watching, turned.

The tips of David's ears went bright red. "I told you they're stuck."

Sara put her camera on the ground, "So we separate them."

Everyone watched David flinch. "I think we're going to have a problem with that."

Sara only lifted an eyebrow in response. David's entire face went crimson, "He's stuck inside of her."

A moment passed and Sara's only response was "Oh."

Greg blinked three times then seconded her with a much louder, "OH!"

He unconsciously took a step away from the bodies. He looked from Sara to the bodies then back again. "Sara, I'm going to work the perimeter, see if I can't find a purse or keys maybe."

He started to back up from the primary scene. Sara looked up and for a moment she only stared, her face unreadable. After a minute she nodded slowly, "Take a uniform with you."

Jim held up a hand, "You know what, I'll go with him, canvas the area."

He took another look at the two bodies, "I've had enough of this part of the Playground for a while." That left Sara, Sofia and David alone with the connected bodies.

Sofia put a fresh toothpick in her mouth, "So how are we going to get these two to the morgue?

* * *

Sofia watched with morbid fascination while Sara and Dave tried to maneuver the bodies. Every time she thought they'd made progress, one of them would shake their head or mutter a curse. The two naked corpses were robbed of all dignity as they were twisted around. Both Sara and Dave had to put their hands over their genitals more than once. As a cop, Sofia knew that their actions were clinical, necessary even. As a woman, she cringed. 

She turned her attention to the investigator's faces instead of their hands. David, despite his night after night experience with handling corpses, had a distinctly uncomfortable expression on it. Sara, on the other hand, looked perfectly removed from the scene. Her face was like a Neo-Classic bust under the floodlights, pale as marble and rigidly controlled.

A bead of sweat slid down Sara's forehead and jawline. "Dave, twist him." Sara moved carefully, trying to both respect the bodies and do her job.

Super Dave grunted and with his hands between the two people's legs, he began to twist. A sickening tear of flesh and sinew marked the separation of the two bodies.

Sara straightened up, "Finally."

David, however, was still knelt in place. When he moved his head, Sofia saw why.

David Phillips, Coroner, had a severed, bloody penis in his hands.

Dave went so pale he tinged green. Sara, still completely calm in the face of a David's "Bobbit Situation" held out a large, clear plastic evidence bag. "Doc Robbins is _not_ going to happy."

David nodded mutely and Sara handed him the now full bag. He looked positively thrilled to have it.

After taking another series of photos, of the individual victims and of the dismembered penis, Sara gave Dave one last look. "I'm going to go go over the perimeter and trace evidence with Greg." Again David nodded and Sara turned.

Now facing away from David, Sofia could see that Sara was grinning. She couldn't help but smile herself. "Poor guy."

Sara and Sofia paced off the crime scene in search of their male counterparts. Sara took note of the few and far between markers Greg had set down to mark possible evidence. Out of habit, both women had their flashlights trained on the ground, forever in search of the case-breaking evidence that would probably never present itself. They were close, almost brushing shoulders.

Sofia walked them through the case as they went. "Guys a punk, dollars to doughnuts says he's got a rap sheet as long as my leg. Girl looks clean cut. With what we know, it looks like he jumped her, pulled her into the playground, and raped her." She looked over at Sara, "And-" She shook her head.

Sara shrugged, "The penis was, well it looked like it lost a fight with a lawn mower. I took samples from the blood pool, I think it's all his. As for Jane, it looks like manual strangulation to me."

Sofia rolled the toothpick across her tongue, back and forth, obviously thinking. "What, how, what happened to his penis and what kept them together like that?"

Sara didn't have an answer.

When they caught up with Greg and Brass, they had worked their way all the way across the Playground, tracing the most direct route back to the public sidewalk. Less than three yards from the gated -- not that it ever stopped anyone -- exit to the street Greg found a discarded messenger bag. He put a bright yellow plastic marker down by the purse and took three quick pictures of the purse. He took down quick notes about the purse, numerically designated with evidence marker number six. After observing it in place, he knelt down and opened the flap.

Brass came up beside him, "What have we got?"

Since Brass wasn't wearing gloves, Greg only held up what he'd found. It was a wallet with four dollars, a bus pass, a UNLV student ID, a debit card, and a Nevada Driver's License. All of them belonged to their victim. Their strangled Jane Doe was twenty-four year old Erica Green.

Author's Note: Definitly the most disturbing murder scene I've written to date.


	7. Chapter VI:  Grisley Discoveries

_Chapter VI _

_Grisly Discoveries_

Sara had asked Dave to go through special processing with both bodies, and if possible, she wanted the autopsies marked priority. Her first priority at the moment, however, was identifying the John Doe, so while David prepped Erica Green, she fingerprinted the dead man. Judging from the jail-tats, it wasn't his first ten-card. While Mandy was running the prints through AFIS, Sara reviewed the evidence, such as it was. Sara felt certain that most of this particular case's facts would be revealed during autopsy.

The scene had been a wreck. Most of the trace Greg had marked and collected might not even relate to this case. The Playground had become a local hot spot. Security was too lax and the lawyers and players involved in the hashing out of the property, and what to do with it, simply didn't care. She knew that Greg was going over what he had collected. Since he had that well in hand, she turned to the photos she'd taken on scene. She plugged the memory card from the camera into her laptop and waited while the pictures uploaded. The scene was just as grisly as she remembered it. The night flash had made cold skin seem paler and scarlet red blood brighter against the dim concrete. If not for the fact that she'd been there and seen the two bodies stuck together, she would have considered it a normal scene by the photos. A scene that she had seen too many times.

It puzzled her, what exactly had happened? Had John Doe been raping Erica Green? Sara's instinct told her yes. There had been fresh tear tracks on the young woman's face and John had been scratched on the face and arms. It looked like rape to her. Except of course, rape rarely lead to a severed penis in an evidence bag. Sara could say with complete confidence that this was her first case involving severed male genitalia. Sara moved around restlessly, printing out pictures, logging evidence. In real life, unlike television, a thorough autopsy took hours. Since AFIS was taking its own good sweet time in matching prints, it would most likely take several hours as well; she was left with time on her hands. Patience had never been one of Sara's virtues. After checking in with Greg on the evidence, she was stymied. She knew better than to ask Catherine if she needed a hand with her case, and the guys were in one of their competitive modes, racing to prove one theory over another. As for Grissom, some things were better left alone.

"Autopsy it is."

Sara had assisted with plenty of autopsies. She'd started her Forensic career in the morgue back in San Francisco, in fact. The walk to the morgue was quiet, the CSIs and techs of the night shift were all wrapped up in their own work and cases. Usually she preferred the quiet efficiency of the lab, tonight though she was too keyed up to appreciate it. She picked up her pace. If she let her mind drift for two long without a clear-cut train of thought, she would think about Cheryl Montinegro. She really didn't want to think about the girl or her death.

Much like a crime scene, she smelled the morgue before she entered it. Antiseptic and death, it was a familiar scent that rarely bothered her after so many years. She pushed through the double doors and found that she was in luck: David and Doc Robbins were about midway into Erica Green's autopsy.

David looked up first; he smiled underneath his splatter shield.

Doctor Robbins looked up a moment after, his hands still inside the y-incision to the wrist. "Ah, Sara, you saved me a call."

She held up a hand, "If this is about the penis, it wasn't our fault."

The ME looked at her with a somewhat annoyed expression, and then he shook his head. "I don't recall ever seeing damage like that before."

Sara walked around the body, "So any ideas, Doc?"

The balding and bearded man handed her a speculum, "You broke it, you bought it. So you do the honors."

Sara rolled her eyes. She hated this part of her yearly exam as it was. Being on the other side of the oversized salad tongs was no less mortifying. She bent down and spread the victim's legs. Sara firmly reminded herself that this was not a living woman anymore. She was a victim, yes, but a dead one. Erica Green did not feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. She was a cadaver on a slab. She was evidence. She bent down and proceeded. She looked only for a moment, then straightened back up, "Doc, did you do a pelvic x-ray?"

He looked up from the woman's left lung. "There was no bullet present, no incised wounds, so no, I did not."

Sara pulled the speculum out of the woman's cold body. "We need to. There's something _inside_ her. A knife maybe."

Eyebrows raised, Doctor Robbins only nodded and put the woman's lung back inside her. "David, get the x-ray machine."

* * *

Sofia arrived thirty minutes later, her usually sleek and tidy hair slightly mussed, and a frown cut deep into her visage. She had been the officer that had gone to inform her family that Erica would never come home again. It was one of the hardest parts about being a cop.

Sara said nothing, but did hand her a cup of Blue Hawaiian.

Since Sofia had heard Greg's possessive rant more than once, she looked at the brunette CSI. "Does Sanders know you know where he hides his stash?" Like many of Sara's non-answers, her grin made Sofia all the curiouser.

"So why did you call me down here, again?"

She and Sara turned the corner, "I found something interesting down in autopsy."

Sofia took a sip of her coffee and almost groaned at the taste. "Okay."

Sara shrugged, "We haven't removed it yet, but I thought you might want to be here when we did. I think there's something, some sort of foreign object in Erica Green's vaginal cavity."

Sofia let the hot coffee she'd just sipped slide back into the Styrofoam cup. "Excuse me?"

Sara nodded, "I know. Doc took an x ray, and he said it was _very_ interesting. Sofia drained her cup and tossed it in the Trace Lab's trashcan as they passed. "A knife, maybe, could explain all the damage."

Sofia sucked in air between her teeth. "I'm sorry, but who would put anything, especially a knife _up there_? She paused to cross her legs as they walked. "It's just…" She couldn't articulate a word, so she just let her hands fall limply as they walked.

Doctor Robbins had the X-ray up on the lighted board when they arrived in the Morgue. He looked at them, "Ladies."

Sara had seen her share of x-rays, as had Sofia. They were both floored.

Sara cocked her head to the side, "What the _hell_ is that?"

Shining bright against the black background and the off-white of bone were several bright white shapes inside the pelvis.

The ME looked from Detective to CSI, "Shall I remove it?"

Both Sara and Sofia nodded. There was a strange sense of anticipation and dread in the room. The body was still out and naked under a thin sheet. Her face was covered and her lower body was open to the air. Washed clean of dried blood, Sara and Sofia could see the many deep purple bruises on her hips and legs. Robbins centered himself at the bottom of the table and pushed the dead woman's legs open a little wider. Working with the speculum and forceps, he probed and hmmed and uhmed. Sara shifted her weight from foot to foot, waiting to find out exactly what they had found.

It was somewhat anticlimactic. Whatever it was, it slid out with almost no resistance. That puzzled Sara further. She had worked with the two bodies when they'd been, for lack of better words, stuck together.

David handed Robbins a kidney shaped pan and they both turned. "Ladies, I believe this is the murder weapon."


	8. Chapter VII:  Latex and Blood

_Chapter VII_

_Latex and Blood_

Sofia looked at the Doctor dubiously. "Murder weapon?"

He nodded, "He killed her and she killed him right back." Robbins lifted the pan higher, "This is what caused the damage to his penis, and from my initial examination he died from traumatic blood loss, therefore this is your murder weapon."

The two women looked at the pan, neither were particularly sure what they were seeing. The insert was about four inches long, cylindrical in shape and flesh-toned beige in color. It appeared to be made out of a thick latex rubber of some kind.

Sofia cocked her head, "It doesn't look particularly threatening, Doc. It's sort of vanilla compared to some of the things I've seen."

Al Robbins didn't comment, but he did crack a small smile. In the meantime, Sara had gotten a pair of latex gloves from the box on the nearby counter. She carefully picked up the item. "It weighs more than I thought it would." She turned the item over in her hands, "One end is rounded off, and the other is flat with a slit down the middle." She looked at the flap. "The flap is made of a thinner latex." She looked up, "Hey Doc, can I borrow your camera?"

In the seven odd seconds it took for Sara to ask her question, her forefinger slipped. Her finger moved less than an inch, it dipped into the slit and when she jerked it back, she felt a sting. Something had sliced through her glove and into her finger. White latex glove was tainted with red blood. A drop slid down to her palm. Quickly, more worried about evidence contamination than her finger, Sara put the dangerous piece of evidence back in the tray and backed away. "Jesus!"

Sofia moved back with her. "Son of a Bitch!" Moving with an efficiency born of practice, familiarity and drilled-in-procedure, Sofia went to one of the cabinets and pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag. At the sink, Sara dropped the cut and bloodied glove into the open bag. Sofia watched gravely while Sara washed her finger and used alcohol based hand sanitizer on the cut.

While David was looking for the first-aid kit, Doctor Robbins looked down at the deceptively harmless piece of rubber. Using forceps, he peeled back the flaps, his hands steady. He went about the procedure with the same precaution as a member of the bomb squad would with a stick of dynamite. Working carefully, keeping his hands out of harm's way, his eyes went wide as he opened up and turned the rubber inside out.

His voice wasn't quite steady when he spoke again. "Sofia don't touch her cut."

Sofia, her own hands covered with gloves, had been midway into putting a band-aid around the other woman's finger paused, "What's the matter?"

The ME turned around, "Sara you're going to need to be tested." Both women came closer to see what he meant.

Neither Sara nor Sofia had truly been ready for what they saw.

Hidden inside the almost vanilla, to quote Sofia, latex shell was something that the four gathered people had never encountered. Sara blinked and lifted the camera again to take pictures; it was just as automatic and reflexive as hitting the space bar when typing. She barely thought about it. David had gone pale and Sofia ran her hands through her hair. Doctor Robbins only stared at what he had revealed. A metal barb, like a straightened fishhook ran for the entire length of what Sara could only label as a device. The barb glimmered in the fluorescent light, stainless steel with blood and chunks of ragged flesh on it. Along the walls of the device, lined up in pairs, were bloody razor blades.

Sofia's breathless "Jesus Christ" summed up the room's thoughts completely.

David looked at Sara, then Sofia, "What kind of woman would do that. Its-it's a bear-trap in… well, you know." The coroner's face was turning red again.

Sofia shook her head, "I don't know, but I know why he killed her now." She looked at the device, "See right behind the flap, barbs. Four sharp spikes were embedded right behind the flap, pieces of flesh hung pitifully off them. He couldn't get out. He killed her hoping to get out."

The abused and severed penis was nearby and Sofia glanced at it, "Doc can you prove that this _thing..._" The Detective's voice betrayed her obvious disgust, "caused the damage that killed him?"

The ME looked from the device to the Detective, "I'll have to cut him open to be sure, and Tox hasn't come back yet, but I'm willing to bet my son's college fund that it at least contributed to his death."

They looked at the sheet covered dead man on the slab. "Any luck identifying him yet?"

Sara shook her head, "We're still waiting on prints." Her voice, too, was hushed and her eyes locked on the device that had cut her. It wasn't the first time something: a shard of glass, a discarded hypodermic needle, a knife, a splinter, had cut through her glove and into her skin. It wouldn't be her last either. It was a risk that every CSI knew and dealt with. It didn't stop the fear. A little cut could have been infected with countless diseases, including the big one, HIV. It wasn't an abstract fear, either, Sara knew it was a real danger. She had a friend, a fellow criminalist, back East, who had gotten HIV in just such a way. She ran her uninjured hand through her hair to clear her thoughts. "Okay, we need to find out where the hell she got that monstrosity."

Beside her, Sofia nodded, "A serial number or maker's mark, a distinguishing feature of some kind." She pursed her lips. "There's got to be someone who knows something about this. Grissom's dominatrix, maybe?"

For a moment there was a tense silence, then Sara cleared her throat. "It's a no-go, she's out of the spanking business."

David looked between the two of them, "Google it."

Both women groaned then started to snicker. "What are we going to type in, Super Dave -" Sofia looked at him, "Anti-Penis Device?"

Sara stopped snickering, "Or Anti-Rape Device." Her brows furrowed at the thought.

Sofia turned her head, "Are you serious?"

Sara looked down at the two dead bodies, with a cold look in her dark eyes, "Deadly."

Author's Note: I was somewhat concerned when I read that some of you lovely readers are finding some of the scenes funny. I would also like to say that I am not completly responsible for this device. There is an actual, factual patent out for just this sort of device.


	9. Chapter VIII:  Bump in the Day

_Chapter VIII_

_Things That Go Bump In The Day_

Sofia finished and filed her last report around six am, spent three and a half hours in trial prep with Nick Stokes and Miley Stevens, an ADA, and had been almost to the door when the Under Sheriff caught up with her and asked for an update. When two bodies were found practically in the middle of The Strip, the brass wanted the case closed and quick. It made them look so much better on the evening news. Assuring the Sheriff's crony that the best people in the department were working round the clock had killed another hour. Of course, they had yet to identify the John Doe, had no idea where a college kid would get a vaginal booby trap and the cut-to-the-bone budget didn't allow for overtime. The Sheriff's crony still left smiling. She, or at least her breasts that the leach talked directly to, had talent like that. By the time, she got out and all the way to the car it was eleven in the morning, the mercury was already solidly in the triple digits, and she was thoroughly disgusted.

There was no reason to keep her foul mood to herself though. She had put off grocery shopping until all she had was mostly empty and definitely questionable carton of orange juice and some peanut butter that was under recall. Not to mention that there was a week's worth of dry-cleaning waiting to be picked up due to a slight mishap at Lake Meade, the acne-ridden _Cingular_ repair kid still had her cellphone, the prognosis was iffy at best. What a wonderful morning.

* * *

Dry cleaning was the first and easiest stop. The Seventeenth Street Dry Cleaners was the PD's choice for dry cleaning. Edgar Mone had married a State Trooper and had produced a Narco Detective, a SWAT Officer and his daughter was a cadet at the academy. It wasn't the fanciest place in Vegas, but it was the only place Sofia trusted with her Dress Uniform and Court Clothes, plus there was a Police Discount. Like most cop-haunts, she couldn't get in and out of The Seventeenth without stopping to talk shop with three fellow officers and discussing UNLV's playoff chances with Zach, Mone's youngest son and cheapest laborer. After extricating herself from the web of baby pictures, back in the day stories and 'How's your Mother's, Sofia headed to the grocery store with an inordinate amount of relief.

The Grocery Store, a tri-state chain that she had grown up with, was packed with mothers and small screaming children. It was, in other words, a headache in the making. The store was conveniently located about halfway between work and her condo, and had a Starbucks on one side of it and a branch of her bank on the other. Sofia promised herself an extra tall iced double-whipped cream -- more calories, caffeine and sugar than should even be possible -- drink if she got out of the Produce aisle without hurting herself or others. She picked through bruised tomatoes, debated between organic and non-organic celery, and fended off a six year old who wanted to know if she was a real cop. The cold cereal aisle was a coupon-clippers free-for all so she would do without her Wheaties and she headed straight for the main staple in her diet, the frozen food section. She made sure to get a selection from each of the main food groups,_ Lean Cuisine_, _Stouffers_, and _Hagendaas_. A quick dash to get bagels, bread, coffee creamer, the all-important French Roast _Folgers_, a few odds and ends, in case she was suddenly struck with culinary enthusiasm, and she was done. She spent fifteen minutes locked in a battle of wills with one of the "convenient" Self Check-Out Machines and made it out of the store one hundred dollars poorer and with her sanity just barely intact.

A quick stop at the ATM told her that her car-payment had automatically drafted from her checking account, and she was left with a small number of dollars to stretch until the next paycheck. Groceries bought and packed into her somewhat frivolous, but definitely worth the penny-pinching cost, convertible, Sofia looked over at the Starbucks with something very much like lust bubbling up in her chest. She _needed_ coffee and, if she waited much longer to get it, she would start to get shakes and go into caffeine withdrawal. She had been drinking coffee since she was eleven years old, lived on cups of it on-duty and off. She still blamed Greg Sanders for her addiction.

The cafe was doing brisk midmorning business. Sofia could see a line through the partially tinted windows. There were corporate suits on their early lunch breaks, tired tourists, regulars dressed in everything from running clothes to casino uniforms, and the usual mix of college students on their laptops. To the right of the door, leash looped through the armrest of a patio chair was a dog with an empty water dish. Sofia's hackles went up and she wanted to curse the irresponsible pet owner, but the quickly-evaporating puddle on the sidewalk and the dog's own wet feet told her that the Lab had made a mess of his own water bowl. Since there was a half-empty bottle of water sitting on the bench, she could only assume that the owner was inside getting a java fix. Sofia looked at the line and then back into the dog's big brown eyes. It would be wrong not to give the poor animal water. He didn't help much by whining and pawing at her leg.

Sofia blew out a sigh, "You better be glad I'm a sucker for big brown eyes." She knelt down on one knee and opened the bottle of water while the dog licked her face.

She smiled for the first time since she'd stepped into the morgue last night and pushed him away, "Hey, none of that on a first date, Fido." She patted the large mass of dark blonde hair on the side, and poured the remaining water in the floppy nylon travel bowl. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get a cup of coffee."

The jingle of bells at the door made the dog look up and when he jumped up, tail thumping against Sofia's leg, his over sized paws spilled the newly poured water all over the sidewalk. "Damn it, Riley!"

The woman beside her was obviously the dog's owner. "I was in there for eight minutes tops. I'm sorry-"

Sofia started turning as the woman spoke, "It's okay, he sort of reminds me of a guy I kno-"

Sara Sidle, dressed in black lycra running clothes and dark sunglasses looked down at her.

Her face instantly changed from politely apologetic to amused, "Flirting with my dog, Detective?"

Sara juggled her coffee cup and a trademark-embossed plastic bag and offered her a hand up. Sofia stood and looked from the frazzled brunette to the completely innocent looking dog.

They were some pair. "Well, he is a step up from Sanders."

Sara grinned, "I don't know about that, he's just as bad of a flirter."

As if on cue, Riley stuck his cold wet nose into Sofia's crotch. Sara pulled him away, "Sorry. He gets over excited."

Sofia only laughed, "Don't worry about it; it's the closest I've come to a date in three months." Chagrinned, Sofia looked down at Riley, who looked like he was smiling around his lolling tongue. "Next time, Fuzzball, bring flowers and candy, okay?"

The two women laughed and Riley was just thrilled to have two people petting and paying attention to him at the same time.

An hour, an iced coffee a piece and another bottle of water for Riley later, Sofia pushed her sunglasses harder against her nose. "So I spent three hours with Nick doing his Gentlemen Cowboy routine for the new ADA."

Sara wrinkled her nose, "The redhead who could double as a stripper?" She held her hands out in front of her chest to indicate large breasts as she spoke, "She didn't fall for it, did she?"

Sofia snorted, "She was giggling during her practice cross examination."

Sara let her head drop back. "I hate her already."

Sofia agreed, and pantomimed a gun with her thumb and forefinger, "Another blow to woman kind."

Sara sucked the melted dregs of her drink through the straw, "That's nothing. I'll call your flirting Nick and raise you a pissy Catherine." Sofia chuckled, "I'll see you that and an hour with the Under Sheriff." Sara, who knew very well how the Under Sheriff treated anyone who had two x chromosomes grimaced, "I fold."

Half of the statement was lost in a yawn. Sofia looked down at her watch, "You know I think it's past yours and Riley's bedtime. How long have you been up, anyway?"

Sara only smiled as an answer and stood. "We know when we're not wanted, huh, Riley?" She unraveled the leash and patted her thigh to catch the dog's attention. "I'll see you around, Sofia."

Sofia nodded her head, "Definitely."

The blonde Detective watched woman and dog jog off together without moving. Her eyes followed the two through the parking lot, back onto the sidewalk and around the curve until she couldn't see them anymore. Only then did she move, she leaned forward, elbows propped on the table, hands cupping her chin and went over what had just happened. It was not often that she sat outside in one hundred plus temperatures talking to Sara Sidle. Of course, she could count the number of times she'd talk to Sara outside of work on one hand and have fingers left over. The difference was like day and night. Even with a case looming over their heads, they had not spoken of work at all. Sara, in the early afternoon sunlight had looked tired, but at the same time, lighter. Perhaps it was being away from the confines of work, or maybe Riley had a calming effect on the woman, Sofia didn't know exactly, but she liked it. She liked the Sara of the day a lot.

Sofia got up and shot her empty plastic cup into a trashcan. She wouldn't mind seeing Riley and Sara again sometime. She fished her keys out of her pocket and belatedly realized that she had left her groceries, most of them frozen, in her trunk. She almost cursed, but decided it had been worth it. It wasn't every day she got to spend a carefree hour with a beautiful woman and her dog. It wouldn't hit her until she was navigating through traffic on her way to her condo that she had called Sara Sidle a beautiful woman and meant it.

Author's Note: What's that? Sara has a dog. Why yes, yes she does. His name is Riley and we'll find out more about him later. Happy Veterans Day to all and now I am going to go and sleep. Hooray sleep.


	10. Chapter IX:  Moody Women

_Chapter IX_

_Moody Women_

Sara had overslept. Of course her personal version of overslept was different from most. By the time she had rolled out of bed and had her first cup of evening coffee, she still had an hour until she had to report for her shift. In some books, that was plenty of time; in Sara's it was a near disaster. Slurping her second cup of newly purchased-and-ground Starbucks coffee, she went around the apartment trying to get her bearings. Her clothes were laid out on the chair beside her bed just as they always were. She had done so before she'd left with Riley to jog that morning. She looked down at them and frowned. Black slacks and a black short-sleeved button down shirt. Paired up with her black boots, black holster and black lab vest and she would blend in with the night. She didn't feel like blending in tonight.

Riley who was still stretched out on the left, and vacant, side of her bed watched her with lazy eyes as she delved into her closet. The clothes inside were meticulously organized as were the shelves and floor space. The closet was moderately sized and each of the three walls held racks for storage. Her work clothes were directly in front of her. An almost neverending supply of slacks and suitable shirts, mostly black, and a few casual jackets and a set of department overalls that had found their way to her closet. The left side of the closet held her more formal attire that was reserved for court and the odd banquet, wedding, and the even rarer night out. The right side was slightly more eclectic. Her casual clothing was arranged with pants, mostly blue jeans, on the bottom rack, and shirts on the top. The jeans were arranged by shade and the shirts in their proper spectrum order, with white on the left going to the one pink shirt that she'd received as a gift to the deep violet shirt and her assorted blacks on the far right.

After letting Riley out for a quick tinkle, she left her apartment complex humming. She was in a surprisingly good mood and her wardrobe selection mirrored that. A three-quarter sleeve length shirt in eye-popping red, jeans that were broken in just right, and she had let her hair do its own chaotic thing. It was a far shot from what she'd laid out for the evening, but it felt good, and yes it didn't look that bad either. Sara chuckled to herself as she walked to her car, one hour of girl talk with Sofia Curtis and she was back in the swing of things. Who would have thought it? She paused at her car. The white environmental-friendly hybrid was a good car, and she even enjoyed driving the machine. Tonight, though, she didn't feel like it. Her eyes slid over one spot to her second and rarely used parking place. What used to hold Gil Grissom's vehicle on the odd event that he came to her place was now taken up by a tarp covered alternative to her hybrid. After being cleared by the doctors, she had gone and bought herself a little gift. A 'Congratulations on Not Dying' sort of gift. It was a tad morbid, but it had cheered her up. Then again what girl wouldn't be cheered up by a brand new motorcycle?  
She took the tarp off and wasted five minutes just staring at the bike. Black as the night and just as dangerous, she had bought it right off of the show room floor. Her helmet, black and silver to match the bike, and her matching riding jacket were in the trunk of her car and it was a clear night. She had twenty minutes to make it to work and it was a Saturday night. This was going to be _fun._

* * *

If Sara Sidle was in a great mood, Catherine Willows, her constant opposite in all things, was not a woman to be crossed with that night. There were several reasons for her mood: her daughter's eighteen year old boyfriend, or the fact that her six-year old car was making sounds that would shortly lead to a trip to an overpriced mechanic. Not to mention the fact that her mother was on some severely misguided quest to have the city of Las Vegas name a street after Sam. As if having the city's newest crime hot spot named after him wasn't enough as it was. 

Her watch told her she had three minutes until she was late and wasn't that just the icing on tonight's thick slab of 'Piss Me Off' cake. She was three steps from her car when a motorcycle squealed into the lot. Catherine watched the rider gear down and circle, looking for a parking place. The bike was new and the rider seemed confident, something that irked Catherine for a reason that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She was irked further when the rider parked his bike in the slot right next to her less than brand new Sedan. The rider put his boot-clad feet on the concrete and turned the sleek sport bike off. The engine ticked as it cooled down. Catherine raised an eyebrow, "I hope you're an organ donor." The rider unstrapped and took off the helmet, a quick toss of dark curls revealed Sara Sidle's smirking face, "I am, actually."

If it had been anyone else, Catherine Willows would have let it go. It was, however, Sara Sidle flaunting her new toy and smirking at her and that pushed Catherine the rest of the way over the invisible line in her psyche, the one that marked the border between simply perturbed and completely pissed.

The blonde supervisor clenched her jaw, "Let's get inside, there's work to do, Sidle." Had she waited around before stalking to the Lab's main entrance, she would have heard Sara curse under her breath.

A cliché of the Old West was that when a well-known outlaw came down the main boulevard of the town, the innocent bystanders made themselves scarce. Old movies would show people ducking behind saloon doors, dodging into alleys and in the occasional comedy, jumping into conveniently placed water barrels. The setting was different but the sudden exodus of the Crime Lab personnel from the halls was very much the same. Nobody wanted to be in Catherine Willow's path when she was mad. The one possible exception to this otherwise universal rule was, of course, Gil Grissom.

The Nightshift's leader was either incredibly brave or completely oblivious because he stepped right out into the hallway, "Catherine, I'm glad you're here, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Any other person would have melted under her hot glare; Grissom barely blinked.

* * *

Sara hadn't even made it all the way to the locker room when Mandy poked her head out the Print Lab. "I got a hit on your John Doe." 

Helmet still in hand, Sara stopped in her tracks and detoured into the lab. Mandy, perky as ever, waved her over to the computer screen, "Meet Stewart Finnigan, Irish by way of Trenton New Jersey."

Sara leaned closer and read through the broad-stroke description and rap sheet AFIS listed. "Well he wasn't a choir boy -- couple of collars for Aggravated B&E, Assault and he skipped out on a Rape One charge and that was before he moved to Vegas." Her eyes skipped down the screen, "He's graduated to Armed Robbery and did three years of a five year sentence, released last month." Scoffing, "He didn't last very long."

She took the printout and tucked it under her arm, "Thanks."

A quick stop to stow her helmet and then she went straight to the Morgue, in hopes of getting the complete Autopsy Reports on both Finnigan and Green. She pushed through the double doors and was met with six sheet-covered bodies. She guesstimated that her two were in the freezer and these must were the mass-cal victims that had been brought in from the I-15 pileup that Days had caught.

A harried looking Super Dave brushed by her and didn't even pause, "Robbins sent the files to your inbox about thirty minutes ago, tox reports included." Since his arms were loaded down with clipboards, and work was obviously piling up, she nodded and left the morgue staff to their grim work.

The CSI bullpen was empty, which wasn't unusual this early in the shift. Most of the team would be in the lounge waiting for the nightly meeting. Her inbox, despite being empty when she'd left that morning, was crammed full. She pulled the whole mess out and figured it would take her the entire fifteen minutes she had before the meeting to sort it all out. The autopsy files were in separate, but neatly rubber-banded together, case folders flagged a neon green post-it-note so she could see it right off the bat. She pushed aside the pink 'While You Were Out' message slips, the photocopied interdepartmental and PD memos and opened up the ME's file. The reports were thorough and had the accompanying photos, anatomical diagrams and a clear-cut summary printed in, the fourteen point aerial typeface that Robbins favored.

She looked at Erica Green's first. The SAE had come back positive -- the girl had been raped. Sara had already known that, of course, but to see it in print made it more concrete. There was no semen, but that came as no surprise. Her blood work had come back negative for drugs and alcohol and the cause of death was, as predicted, asphyxiation by manual strangulation. Robbins had also noted some strange scarring inside her vaginal cavity, noting that the device they had pulled out of her was the most likely source. They hadn't found a next of kin as of yet, but Sara knew Sofia and Jim had that well in hand.

She glanced at her watch and decided that she had just enough time to skim Finnigan's report before reporting in for the worst part of her shift. The nightly meeting was annoying at best and slow torture at worst. Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows in the same room at the same time, both of them trying to make it look like they weren't staring or glaring at her. It was like being caught between fire and ice and she couldn't even flinch because the boys might catch on and the last thing the team needed was another civil war on its hands.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Sara turned her attention back to the case that was literally at hand. Stewart Finnigan had died of traumatic blood loss to his penis. She flipped the pages to the tox report. Her eyes quickly ran over the charts that marked his blood chemistry and read the chemical symbols the same way a layman would read third grade literature. Finnigan had bled out so quickly because he'd been tripping on what had become known as The Rapist's Cocktail. The cocktail was a combination of Viagra, Ecstasy and the newest drug of choice, Cheese. Cheese was heroin mixed with cooked cold pills. The drugs were ground into powder, mixed with the cheese, and had an incredible effect on the mind and body. Erica Green had never stood a chance. Through a pharmaceutical fluke, though, neither had Finnigan. The combination of drugs had contributed to the blood loss and shock that had worked together to kill him. He was a rapist who had died from damage to his penis while raping a woman. That was poetry, dark and bloody. Despite her disgust and hate of rape and rapists, she could not equate Finnigan's bloody end with justice.

Sara wiped her hand down her face, "I guess that's actually a good thing?" The empty room didn't hold any answers for her, and she had a meeting to get to.

Author's Note: What did most of that have to do with this story? Absoloutly nothing. What does it have to do with a little story called 'Mistaken Identity'? Wouldn't you like to know.


	11. Chapter X:  Back To School

_Chapter X_

_Back to School_

The lounge was in its usual state of what Sara thought of as professional chaos. The television was on, tuned to the late night news. The night and weekend woman that Sara vaguely recognized as someone who had shoved a microphone in her face on more than one occasion was silently reviewing the events of the hot desert day. Sluggish closed-captioning was tapered across the bottom of the screen, but no one read it. The fluff-filled Saturday edition of the _Las Vegas Sun_ had been cannibalized of its sports page, comics, sales papers, and editorials. The recipe section was holding someone's place in the current issue of the _The Scientific Journal of Forensics, _and what was left was hanging, half on and half off the catch-all coffee table just waiting to be swept onto the floor.

Nick and Greg were in heated competition, duking it out on the latest NCAA Football game for the not so secret Playstation2 hooked up to the room's second television. Warrick was sitting on the counter reading over a thick file of reports for whatever case he was working. Catherine and Grissom weren't there yet, which Sara accredited to the return of her good fortune. Since the couch was completely taken up by the children and their game, Sara took a seat at the table, her back to the wall so she could see the rest of the room over the top of the folder while she re-read the autopsy and tox reports.

The case was, she mused, going nowhere. There was no perp to catch, no case to prep for eventual trial. It was a grisly open and shut case. She would be able to type up the report tonight and move on to whatever came next. And yet.

Despite it being a slight tangent, the device still had most of her attention. She had never seen anything like it; she had never seen or heard anything that would lead even her darkest thoughts close to the idea of it. She furrowed her brow as she read back over the listed injuries to Finnegan's penis. She still couldn't pan it out in her mind. The woman couldn't have known she was going to be raped, and there was no way that it had been some kind of thrill sex. Something just wasn't sitting right. She ran it through her mind one more time. Young girl: smart, pretty, local, goes walking down the streets and just happens to end up near The Playground? It didn't jive. You had to be living under a pretty dense rock not to know that the area was dangerous. Add it to the fact that gossip around campus had probably put everything from rape gangs to ghosts raised by satanic cults in the Playground at night. Sara couldn't fathom any reason why Erica Green would have been anywhere near the area. She didn't turn tricks and there were far safer places to score drugs. Sara doubted Erica would have even needed to leave the dorm for that. It was a safe assumption that she hadn't planned on being raped, so why had Erica Green had razors in her vaginal cavity?

Sara had no clue. She was missing something. _Something_ that would tie the case up with a neat little bow. The Resident Assistants at Erica Green's dorm had reported that the girl's three roommates would be back from their Basketball tournament that night, maybe they would be able to shed some light on the elusive something.

Her musings were abruptly cut off when a manicured hand jerked the folder down so it lay flat on the table. It was inexcusably rude and highly unprofessional. For those who knew the harsher side of Catherine Willow's temper, it was also a challenge. Sara fought to keep her face passive, even as her temper skyrocketed. In the darker recesses of her mind, Sara saw herself leaping to her feet and punching Catherine in the face. She could all but hear the solid, sickening sound of the hit. Medically speaking it was best to take a punch on the forehead, the bone protecting the frontal lobe was dense, 2.94 millimeters, and when the head snapped back, the neck and shoulders took much of the momentum. In Sara's mind, she always struck the other woman in the jaw, the right side. Her head would fly to the left, causing the other woman's brain to be rattled, and blood would spatter against the nearby window into the hallway. If a single blow was landed just right, it could blacken the eye, swell the nose, and bust the lip.

Those sorts of thoughts frightened Sara more than a hundred days in the desert and a hundred nights under the car. What scared her more was the fact that when she replayed it in her head, it made her smirk. The little smirk turned to a frown and she folded the anger and pushed it down.

When she looked Catherine in the eye, Sara felt confident that her face was blank and she only blinked, "I'm sorry, Catherine, did you say something?"

The question had been genuine; Sara hadn't noticed Catherine's arrival and certainly hadn't heard what, if anything, she'd said.

Catherine's eyebrows winged up, a warning sign, "Would you like to join the rest of us, Sara or have you already gone ahead and solved yours and Greg's case?"

Sara hadn't found time to update Greg on everything yet. He knew about the device, of course, she wouldn't have left him out of the loop on something that important. She had been so busy analyzing what she'd just been given that she hadn't thought to tell him the newest discoveries.

She felt a hot rush of guilt and swallowed to hold the acidic bile down in her gullet. "No, I just got this on my way to the lounge; Doc just sent it to me." That was mostly true and Sara gave Greg a little grin, and gestured for him to reach out and get the file. "It's actually turning into a pretty interesting case."

Despite the fact that Greg was on his feet, only a step away, Catherine intercepted the file. This time Sara did let her face to harden. That had been uncalled for, since last time she'd checked, Greg hadn't done anything to piss Catherine off.

The blonde supervisor skimmed over the reports, "Double, one killed the other, right?"

Greg nodded, "It was a pretty bloody scene."

Catherine closed the folder, "Well it looks pretty open and shut, Sara can wrap it up herself. Greg I need you out at a Suspicious Circs tonight."

Now _that_ was going way too far. She and Catherine fought on a pretty regular basis, but they didn't drag others into it, not directly at least. Sara stood up and braced her hands on the table, palms flat. "What happened to you go under the tape, you go all the way? There are lose ends and the girl's next of kin hasn't even been found yet."

Catherine leaned her palms on the table, mirroring Sara's position from across the table. Had they been any closer, their noses would have come close to touching. "You don't need Greg to type paperwork and tie up loose ends. The case is closed, Sara, I want you free and clear to start a new case tomorrow night if not sooner, do I make myself clear?"

Furtively -- Sara didn't knew if it was out of habit or desperation -- she looked at Grissom. She noticed that Greg, too, was looking at him.

Grissom held up his hands, one empty, one with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in it, "Catherine is supervisor, what she says goes."

Sara wanted to flinch, that had been harsh. What had been harsher? He wouldn't even meet her eyes. Nick coughed and started going over his and Warrick's case and the attention slowly shifted to the Texan.

Greg shrugged his shoulders, which was Greg for "There's nothing I can do that won't get us both in trouble" The twinkle in his eyes told her that he wouldn't mind a little trouble. She answered him, just as silently, with a roll of her eyes and a small smile that said, "Thanks for the offer, but I can handle this case and Catherine."

Greg grin grew a little wider and he sank his hands in his pockets to jingle the loose change in them. He wanted to hear about his new case, when his back was turned, Sara let her smile settle into the much more natural feeling frown. Her good mood left over from the morning was going down the tubes and fast.

* * *

Midnight was early for the late shift, for the whole city really. Most people who would classify themselves as normal were calling it a night. A college campus wasn't a normal part of any town. Driven by caffeine, exuberance, and young adult angst, UNLV never slept. Neither, it seemed, did its co-ed inhabitants. UNLV Place Apartments, apartment-style living on campus, reserved exclusively for upperclassmen, athletes and those willing to pay triple rent, was buzzing as Sara Sidle along with Jim Brass and Sofia Curtis, walked down the halls. Sun-streak blonde, shirtless frat boys carried duffels of Mother-washed, dried, and folded laundry made their way through the halls and scantily clad young women were leaning against the walls rating the boys as they went by. Several different songs, in at least four different genres of music, rattled the walls from different directions and somewhere, someone was burning something. If Sara's college experience held true, it was probably Ramen Noodles

Jim Brass looked around. He might have been reflecting back on his own college days, or that his daughter had completely eschewed higher education, his face revealed nothing. "Was this how you girls spent your college days?"

Sara chuckled, "Sometimes, but my scholarship didn't pay for places like this. I had a new roommate every single semester, everything from blue blood law students to foreigners in the exchange program. I shared a bathroom with seven other girls for four years."

Sofia nodded, "Ah yes, four feet of space between you and whatever nutcase they paired you up with. Fun times. When I made Varsity I got my own room, which was the motivation for me working my ass off to keep my spot."

They turned the corner and stared down another hallway full of number marked doors and young people.

Jim looked over at the younger detective, "You run track?"

It was a good guess; everyone knew how religious Sofia was about running. The blonde checked her notes and then looked at the numbers they were passing, "Point Guard and we're here." Apartment 263's door was white with black numbers, just like every other door in the seemingly endless hallways and floors that made up the complex.

The door was already wide open and Campus Police was already inside. Three girls, around the same age that Erica had been, were sitting on the couch. They were dressed in matching warm-up suits in UNLV colors and their names were neatly stitched on the left breast of their jackets. Jessica was on the far left, her pale blonde hair had been pulled into a messy French braid, and there were fresh tear tracks on her face. Next to her sat Sheena, a dark skinned woman who looked like she was all legs and arms. On the end was Linda, a brunette whose stone hard face didn't give away anything. Jim leaned closer to Sofia and, though Sara couldn't hear what the Captain was saying, she had a good idea. The three girls would most likely respond better to two women than a man who was old enough to be their father.

Since Sofia, like most everyone on the planet, was better with people than she was, Sara went to the room that Captain McNeely, the man who kept the campus as safe as he could, had pointed out as Erica's. She looked around, taking in everything quickly. The walls were painted utilitarian white and decorated with only smudges of some sort of yellow substance here and there. There was a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers with a television on top of it and a closet. There was a backpack on the floor and a soccer ball in the corner. The window, hidden by blackout curtains, faced the building's inner courtyard.

"Pretty bare, huh?"

Sara turned around to see Linda at the door. "I'm sorry, but you can't be in here right now."

The brunette, a few inches taller than herself, only shrugged. "It wasn't always like this; see the yellow smudges?"

Sara passed her flashlight over the open expanse of wall between the bed and the desk, "Yes."

The brunette ignored the earlier statement and came in to sit on the bed, she drew her legs up under her and looked around at the walls. "She had this big collage; it practically covered the entire wall. Pictures of her folks back home, her friends, her high school pennant, pictures of the team, a poster for Manchester United and the US Women's Soccer Team and, God, everything. There were posters, behind the door there was a Family Guy poster, over the shelves there was this huge dragon poster, she taped up strategies from her playbook, there was no white." The brunette sighed, "Then it just changed, _she_ changed."

Sara looked around, "She took everything down – what -- to start again?"

Linda shook her head, "No, she ripped it all down. It was the day after they were beaten out of the regional tournament. She blew this huge penalty shot. She's the starting goal keeper… I mean she was at least." Linda didn't sniff, she snorted up her tears. "She came home and everything was just different. At first I thought it was the game, she was really serious about soccer, and I mean when I lose, I feel it. This though, it was something, I don't know, worse. She started to hook class, stopped going home for weekend and holidays, stopped going out period -- hid in her room allot. Then she cut her hair." Linda sighed, "She loved her hair, was a prima-donna about it. I should know; we share a bathroom. She stopped dyeing it, stopped primping it, then one day she just hacked it off short."

Sara nodded, "Do you know what happened to cause this sudden change?"

Linda stood, "No, but I do know she was coming out of it. She was going to these meetings down at the student center, getting out and about again. She was smiling again."

McNeely came into the room, his baldhead reflecting the light, "Linda, the detective has a few questions for you."

The brunette nodded and went to the other room. Sara looked around the room one more time, "Hey Mick?" The Captain turned around. "Did Erica Green ever report a rape?" Hoyt McNeely rusty red eyebrows shot up, "What? No. We keep a close watch on all the athletes. I mean after the Duke fiasco and that incident down in Tennessee rape is one of our top priorities. No, Erica never came to me or any of my people about rape." His tone was finite and Sara believed him. She had met Mick back when she'd first come to Vegas. He wasn't just a campus rent-a-cop. He had made his start with the LVPD and would have risen through the ranks with lightning speed if not for the car-wreck that had left him with a bum back. He tipped his LVPD cap to her, "You need anything, Sara, _anything, _and I'll get it for you. Mick was nothing if not dedicated to the school and his several thousand "kids"

She flashed him a smile, "I think I got it, Mick."

She went through the drawers methodically. She doubted she'd find a how-to book or a manufacturer's note on the device, but there might be something. The drawers had, predictably, clothes in them. There was no rhyme or reason to the placement -- things were just crammed in. The desk drawers were a trifle better. There she found a few flyers and pamphlets. She riffled through them. Most were from clubs around town that hosted 'College Night', some were from on-campus events, and one caught her eye. It wasn't a finite clue, but the instant Sara saw it she felt incredibly dumb.

"Snow"

Author's Note: Ah dorm life, glad that's over for me.


	12. Chapter XI:  Fun With Acronyms

_Chapter XI_

_Fun with Acronyms_

"Snow"

Sara handed Sofia the fast-food breakfast burrito and then the coffee the young girl had handed her through the drive through window. Two cups of coffee came through and, finally, Sara's own vegetarian style burrito.

Sofia looked at her, obviously unimpressed. "So we're disobeying both of our supervisor's direct orders for snow?"

Sara nodded as she pulled back out onto Fremont Street. "Uh huh."

Sofia moved an empty soda can out of the passenger side cup-holder and plunked her jumbo coffee into it. "Snow in the desert in the middle of a heat wave… sure. You know if you take a right onto Blue Diamond Road it's only a few miles to my condo."

Sara would have been offended if not for Sofia's grin. "Do I need to spell it out for you, Detective?" Since Sofia's mouth was full of egg and sausage, Sara didn't wait for a reply. "South Nevada chapter of the National Organization for Women, S-N-N-O-W. Snow." Sara slowed to a stop at one of the red lights. Traffic was congested; it was ten o'clock on Sunday morning. The faithful were heading to church for spiritual enlightenment and the corrupt were going in for another day of debauchery.

"I found several flyers and pamphlets for women's groups, including snow SNNOW. They have a recruiting program on campus. I'm thinking that Helen may know something about the device we pulled out of Erica Green."

Sofia took a large gulp of coffee, "Okay, I've got a few questions. First, who's Helen?"

The light changed to green and Sara accelerated smoothly with the flow of traffic. "Helen Amendola-Fines, the President of SNNOW and one of the best victim's rights attorneys on the West Coast."

Sofia took another bite of her burrito and gestured with the uneaten half to make a point. "Are we just doing this so you don't have to deal with Hurricane Catherine back at the lab?" Sara took a drink of her own coffee while smoothly shifting lanes. "Don't you want to find out where she got that _thing_ from?"

Sofia rolled her eyes, and mumbled through her breakfast, "That wasn't an answer."

Sara shrugged one shoulder and took a bite of her own burrito. Sofia chuckled, "Okay, last question, why didn't you ever mention you had a bike?" That one caught Sara's attention and she bobbled the burrito. Sofia smirked and slid her sunglasses down her nose. "Gossip travels fast. I heard it's a beast of a machine and that Catherine turned green with jealousy. Not that I blame her."

Sara nearly choked on a mushroom and turned the same bright shade of red as her shirt. Sofia spent the rest of the ride to the Clark County Central Library laughing so hard she was nearly in tears.

* * *

The Clark County Central Library was, compared to the over-done architecture of Vegas, rather plain. Taken by itself, though, it was lovely in its own odd way. The Greek Revival building had classic columns and an impressive flight of stairs. It put Sara in mind of the library she'd spent so much time in back at Harvard. Except, of course, the building looked completely out of place in the desert. Whoever had built it must have had good intentions and incredibly bad taste. Make-shift breakfast finished and its remains crumpled into a bag, Sara and Sofia had parked the dark blue department-issue Denali and were headed up the steps, taking the stairs two at a time, shoulder to shoulder. 

"So you think these SNNOW people will know something about that _thing_?"

Sara nodded, "We can only hope."

The double doors of the library entrance were plastered with local flyers and posters. An announcement board spelled out the monthly SNNOW meeting in unevenly spaced white letters. The meeting was set to end in ten minutes in the Sun Conference Room. Sara knew the way.

Sofia followed, still smiling, "So you seem to know your way around this place pretty well."

Sara shrugged, "My SNNOW membership card hasn't expired quite yet."

The conference room doors were wide open and women dressed in everything from business suits to jeans and tee-shirts milled around talking. Sara looked around, going on her tiptoes to see over the many heads. She turned back to Sofia for a moment, "C'mon, she's over by the window. Don't take offence to anything she says."

Before Sofia could ask the CSI what exactly she meant, they were 'pardon me'-ing their way through the crowd. Sofia stepped on more than one set of toes and caught more than a few glances, aggravated and otherwise. Sara, on the other hand, was stopped every other step by someone who knew her. By the time they got to the large windows, Sofia felt like they'd been through a parade crowd. There were several women by the window; Sofia had no idea who was Helen and doubted that flashing her badge would help matters much. Lucky for her, Sara knew what she was doing.

"Helen."

The shortest woman by the window, turned and her almost pixie-like face burst into a smile. "Sara! You missed the meeting, but you are just in time to sign up for a spot at the annual regional meeting. We're hosting this year, you know and I would personally love to have you come in."

The petite, copper-toned hair woman was a live wire and already had Sara's hand in hers, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. "What was the name of the presentation you did, again, a few years ago?"

Sara smiled, "Mother, Sister, Daughter, Victim, as you well know, Helen."

The woman's eyes darted to Sofia. "Oh, Sara, _who is this wonderful specimen?" _

Sofia was about to open her mouth, but was beaten, yet again, to the punch.

"Helen, let the girl talk, honestly." The speaker glided through the crowd with a grace and ease that made Sofia want to bare her teeth.

Helen, somewhat calmer, moved her eyes from Sofia's chest to the newcomer. "Sara, let me introduce you to a friend and very talented collogue, Doctor-"

Sofia watched Sara smile. Not one of the tense smiles that she was used to seeing around the lab, but a true one that showed the gap in her teeth. She offered a hand to the newcomer, "Victoria Blake, hello Professor."

The professor, a woman of fifty or so, laughed and pulled the brunette CSI into a hug. Sofia wondered if she'd slipped into an alternate universe, she had never seen Sara Sidle act so friendly around so many people. She learned something new about the other woman every day.

Sara broke off the hug and shook her head, "Okay, sorry, manners. Helen, Professor, this is Detective Sofia Curtis, Sofia this is Helen Amendola-Fines and Doctor Victoria Blake, my Ethics professor from Harvard."

Sofia inclined her head to both women, but offered her hand to neither. The president had been ogling her the whole time and the professor was giving Sara looks that didn't exactly translate to the student-teacher relationship. The Professor alternated between gushing about Sara's academic prowness and the woman's own current lecture tour. Sofia shoved her hands into her pockets, ran her tongue over her teeth and wished for a toothpick, "I hate to bust up the reunion, but we have a few questions we were hoping you could help us answer."

Sara actually blushed, "Yes, actually, maybe if we could step into another room?"

There wasn't another room available, but the corridor was empty.

Sofia took the pictures out of the folder she'd brought along and handed them to Sara as she already had a rapport with the two -- the professor had decided to come along -- women.

Sara took a deep breath, "I was wondering if you could identify it for us."

Doctor Blake put on her reading glasses to see closer and waited patiently for Helen to pass them to her, they never got there. The tiny woman choked on her own breath, then looked from Sara to Sofia with eyes wide. "I haven't thought about these monstrosities for nearly twenty years. Where on earth did you find it?"

Sara looked to Sofia, and the Detective rubbed the back of her neck. "We can't tell you the details about an on-going investigation, but we found this in the vaginal cavity of a murder victim."

Both women went pale and the professor uttered a wispy, "Dear God."

Author's Note: Barring a miracle or at least very good luck, this will be the only update this week. Between Thanksgiving, Day After Thanksgiving sales also known as Blitz Day (My workday is going to start at 5 am to satisfy completly insane shoppers sniffing out bargains) and other pressing events, I just won't have time to look at my computer.


	13. Chapter XII:  Catherine's Case

_Chapter XII_

_Catherine's Case_

She lay on her back with her arms crossed behind her head, staring at the ceiling. The couch was roomy and the fabric was cool to the touch. If she grew cold, there was an dog-fur covered afghan across the back she could curl up under. Despite the room's sixty-five degree temperature, she wasn't cold. Despite sleeping only four out of the last forty-eight hours, she was not tired. Despite the Green case being officially closed, she could not get it out of her mind. It was an almost normal Sunday morning for Sara Sidle. That night and Monday night were her usual nights off and as she was, once again, maxed out on overtime; she would be taking her down time in its entirety.

That was, of course, unless an 'All Hands' case came up. Since, they were in the middle of a seemingly endless heatwave, that was always a possibility. The heat always brought out the worst in people, after all. She hoped for a calm couple of days because no matter how heinous the case, she doubted she'd be able to focus all of her concentration on it. The Green case felt unfinished. There was something still nagging her. That something was, of course, the device.

She looked over at her laptop on the coffee table. It was surrounded by the assorted notes and pictures she'd gathered. Technically, what she had were copies as the originals, down to her own notes, were packed away in the evidence locker. She typed or scanned everything onto the hot-rod laptop that Archie and a friend of his had built for her. It was neat, ordered and all the information was at her fingertips. It still didn't make sense. She had typed out, loosely paraphrased anyway, what Professor Blake and Helen had said about the device, but it still didn't tell her why a college student had one inside of her.

_A prototype was patented in 1980 by a Mr. William Tucker of Los Angeles, California. Its original purpose was, as originally conjectured, to immediately stop any unwanted sexual penetration. It was never put into mass production or marketed. There are three known physical prototypes in existence. Two of which are in museums: The Los Angeles Museum of Women's History and the Houston Museum of Oddities. The third is part of a private collection held by Amanda Doughtry, the retired head and one of the founding mothers of NOW. While there are assurances that all three holders will cooperate, it seems unlikely that the device taken from Miss Green is one of the three. _

Her notes went on, but with little point. As helpful as the two women had been, Sara still knew little about the device. She didn't like leaving lose ends and this was one hell of a lose end. She looked at Riley, who was stretched out on the chair across from her. "You have any ideas?"

The shaggy mutt lolled his tongue at her for a moment then went back to chewing on the rawhide bone between his paws.

Sara sighed, but couldn't quite stop herself from smiling, "Useless."

She thought back over the case, and the last few days. She knew that, tomorrow, Miss Green's body would be released to the girl's parents to be taken home for burial. No one had claimed Finnigan's body and the county would bury him with little ceremony and no memory. Even for a career criminal and rapist, it seemed undeserved. Those thoughts brought her back 'round to his bloody death and the device that caused it. It was like Sofia had said ---

Sofia, Sara shook her head to clear it. Now there was a complication she didn't need: Thinking about the blonde in any other way than Detective First Grade S. Curtis of Las Vegas Homicide. Sofia, Detective Curtis was a colleague. She could even be classified as a "work friend", and that, Sara sternly told herself, was the end of that. It would do her no good to think about the woman's alluring laugh, or her razor sharp brain or the fact that she had all but melted over Riley. It was especially important not to think about the woman's gorgeous blue eyes. Sara was a sucker for blue eyes. "And you know very well what happens when you go down that road, don't you?"

Sara laughed at herself. She was even picking up Sofia's habit of talking to herself. When Sofia did it, it was cute. When she did it, she sounded insane. She plopped one arm over her eyes and groaned. At the rate she was going, she would never get tired and go to sleep.

* * *

Sunday rolled into Monday and Monday was slowly melting into Tuesday. Catherine had a theory about Mondays, if the week started with a high profile triple homicide in Seven Hills, a drive-by right off the strip and a casino robbery, the week couldn't get much worse. Of course, this particular theory didn't take into account the heat wave, Ecklie's interference or the fact that Nick's sister just had to go and have a baby. Where was the cosmic justice? Hadn't she earned enough karma to catch a break yet?

Slightly disgruntled, she shuffled through assignment slips. Days had been slammed and Swing Shift had half-assed it through a few minor cases, so not only did her shift have their own cases but spillover cases to deal with too. As it was Sara's night off and Nick had taken off to Texas to meet the newest member of the Stokes brood, she was short handed and Gil had conveniently disappeared off to some severe decomp and insect life case. Usually she wouldn't have envied him, but the quiet of the desert sounded almost appealing tonight… well, minus the bugs anyway. Greg, she decided, could handle the two B&Es, Warrick would take the hit and run, and she would take on the db in the Tropicana parking garage. If anything else rolled in, she would have to call Sara in, and that was a can of worms she didn't really want to open.

Four and a half hours later, on her second scene of the night, Catherine was worried that she might have to swallow her pride and actually call the brunette CSI in. Then again, the day she couldn't handle an open and shut trick-roll was the day she turned in her ID and badge. The Desert Wind Motel was a tacky off-strip motel that boasted one level of rooms that had seen their last remodel around the seventies, ice machines that probably didn't work and color televisions. When a motel advertised the fact that it had a color television in every room, she didn't hold out much hope for clean sheets.

Her crime scene was in room 117, on the backside of the L-shaped building. She made her way under the tape and along the cracked sidewalk that was bordered by a couple of sad shrubs and dust. A uniform stood outside of 117, his face was ashen, but it looked composed.

Catherine paused, "You okay, Officer?"

The young black man nodded then grinned a little, "Better off than my partner, Ma'am."

She followed his eye-line and saw the silhouette of a man bent over almost double, emptying his guts onto the blacktop of the neighboring parking lot. Catherine patted the uniform on the shoulder, "Good man."

Rookies threw up at the first sight of blood, at the first smell of decomp, but though she didn't know the officer's name, she knew his face. He and his partner had been on more than one bloody scene with her. That did not bode well for her. If the scene was too out of control, she would be here well into the morning.

Fortunately, Doc Robbins was already on scene. She pulled protective booties over her shoes and snapped on latex gloves at the door.

"Hey Doc, David out at another scene?"

The ME didn't even look up as he spoke, "He's on his way back, bringing Grissom's decomp in."

Catherine chuckled, "So you got to come out to this four-star room?"

Robbins blew out a sigh, "Could be worse, I could be scooping the poor man off the pavement with Warrick.

Catherine came closer, "Very true, now what do we have?"

Robbins finally looked up, "A very strange coincidence."

Catherine looked down at the dead body, sweeping it from head to toe. "Caucasian, male, eighteen to twenty -"

She stopped between his splayed legs and her words dropped off. "Jesus, what happened to him? It looked like he tried to _bop a weed-whacker._"

The Doctor looked at her mirthlessly, "You're not far off the mark, Catherine. Two days ago, I would have had no idea what could have done this sort of damage. Now, I think we might have a problem on our hands."

Catherine winged up a light brow, "What do you mean?"

Al Robbins had the man's mutilated penis in his gloved hands, "Sara didn't tell you? One of her victims from the construction site had wounds exactly like this."

While Catherine had glanced at the case file, she hadn't taken time to read it. "So a stiletto blade, maybe, or" She shook her head, "I don't know, what caused it?"

"It's hard to explain, but I can show you when we get this gentleman back to the morgue."

Author's Note: Technical difficulties and busy schedules delayed this chapter a bit. Now, before I forget, someone asked if cheese, a drug that was mentioned a handfull of chapters ago was my own creation or an actual factual drug. It's real, I learned about it at work. Oh so much fun.


	14. Chapter XIII: Rape?

_Chapter XIII_

_Rape?_

The more she worked the case, the more baffling it became. The rushed tox report came back and floored Catherine. She paced her small, shared office, four steps, turn and four steps; she was wearing a hold in the floor in front of her desk. Her victim, twenty-two year old Dedrick Marsh, had a blood alcohol content of one-point three, well over the limit, and flunitrazepam, a benzoduazepine that went by the much more recognizable street name of ruffies. He had begun to feel the effects in the usual fifteen to twenty minutes. He'd become woozy, detached and easily controllable. Marsh had slipped into a drugged sleep and never woken up. It had been, she read, a triple dose, he had gone into a coma and his twenty-something year old heart had stopped. Catherine was willing to bet he had been alive and awake enough to feel the pain, though. She looked through the digital photos she'd taken. There were half moon indentions and cuts in his palms. Even drugged, he had been terrified and in pain, but hadn't been able to do anything in his incapacitated state. He had been so out of it, the bastard hadn't even bothered to tie the poor man down.

Catherine felt nausea hit her in the gut, a rolling greasy wave of empathy. She leaned against the wall of her office, resting her palms and forehead against the cool wall. She hadn't been raped. She knew that, the evidence had all been negative. She _was not _a victim, but the knowledge that she would never know exactly what happened after John Mayer had wrapped his set and before she woke up in a dingy, dirty motel room haunted her. The suffocating fear wrapped around her and squeezed the breath out of her every time she jacknifed up in bed after every single nightmare. She was not a victim. She had a victim down in the morgue. She stood up straight and pushed her hand through her bangs. She schooled her face in the passive expression she'd learned from Gil and sat back down in her chair behind her shared desk. She looked at what she knew about _Dedrick Marsh's_ case.

He had been wined, without being dined, drugged, mutilated and then killed. The SAE kit, complete with anal swabs, wasn't back yet and the file from Sara's similar case had yet to be located, it was probably lost in the waves of paper work that had been sent to central filing. She had called Brass, who had worked the case, but had yet to hear anything back. With nothing else to do while the various tests were run, Catherine turned back to her computer again. She needed to run her vic's name. He might have a car they could track down or something that would lead them to the killer. The search came back with a positive. The rapsheet she'd pulled on Marsh either simplified or further complicated the situation, Marsh had been under investigation for rape by LVPD.

Marsh hadn't been a huge guy, he weighed in at one-eighty nine and all of it appeared to be well defined muscle. There was an UNLV Rebel in a tight red body suit on his arm with the three numbers 'one-eight-five' Marsh had been a wrestler before he'd been busted. She paced off her office again.

Doctor Robbins had shown her pictures of what, he called, the device. It took a sick and twisted woman to shove _that_ inside her. He said he was as positive as he could be, pending full autopsy, that this device had been employed in the murder. Catherine shuddered; it was probably one of the most completely and truly fucked up things she'd ever seen. Had the woman been coerced into using it? If so, for what reason? Was it about revenge, or was it random? She was half-way into yet another turn when someone knocked on the open door.

Sofia Curtis, decked out in black and like a disgruntled statue, stood in her doorway.

"Where's Sara?"

Catherine turned to meet the Detective eye to eye, "It's her night off. I had a few questions about that double you worked with her though."

Sofia leaned her shoulder against the door jamb and crossed her legs at the ankle. She pulled a toothpick out of her pocket and took it out of the wrapper. "Shouldn't Sara be here, I mean it is was her case." She rolled the toothpick in her teeth and put her hands in her pockets. "Things couldn't have changed that much since I've left."

For a minute the two women were locked in a stare, both women were ready to duke it out. Lucky for all concerned, Greg, coffee in hand, ambled by, "Hey Sofia, Catherine, heard we caught another Bobbit-ish case?"

Both women broke away their respective glares and looked at the young CSI. He was dressed for lab-work in jeans and a dark blue tee shirt, which was not exactly out of the normal for Greg. He also had one eye, his left one, shut and squinted tight.

Catherine, temper short, blinked at him, "Greg _what the hell_ is wrong with your eye?" If she had to fill out one more lab accident form, she was going to go insane.

For a moment, Greg attempted to look sheepish. He opened his left eye, but then quickly shut it back with a hiss of air through his teeth. "Liquid breath mint in my eye-don't ask."

Sofia tried not to laugh, "Yeah, okay, Greg, Jim sent me down here since it looks like the cases might be related. Vartan was downright _giddy _when he found out he was switching cases with me."

Greg nodded and was blinking his eye quickly, a tear coming out, but he was apparently working through whatever pain he had inflicted on himself, with a breath mint of all things. "Cool. I'll call Sara." Catherine opened her mouth, but was quickly cut off by Sofia. "She can't come in tonight, but she'll want to know that the case is open again."

Catherine rolled her eyes, "Fine. Whatever. While he's going all gooey over Sidle, you can run a more thorough background check on my vic. His name is Dedrick Marsh."

Greg, who had been playing with his cellphone, looked up. "He's dead? Damn. Guess _that_ case is closed."

Sofia, who had just come on to the case, raised an eyebrow, "What case?"

Greg looked from one of them to another, "It's months old, but still in the papers. He was accused of raping a stripper-turned-freshman, kicked off the wrestling team and out of school. That's why UNLV hired like fifteen new security guys, Mick was pissed. The Marshes were fighting it tooth and nail and the school paper was deadlocked between supporting the girl and condemning her. It's a mess."

Sofia looked from one CSI to another, "Erica Green was a student at UNLV and she was on the soccer team."

Greg had his cell phone to his ear, cradled against his shoulder, "Now I'm definitely calling Sara." He either didn't notice or pointedly ignored Catherine's tight jaw and grinding teeth. Either way, Sofia gave him points for sheer bravery.

* * *

The campus was bustling; it was just before eleven in the morning, prime time for classes. Young adults rushed around her one by one, two by two and pack by pack. The dominant colors of the crowd was faded blue denim and UNLV's scarlet red. Mick conveniently had glossed over the fact that the campus had been in the middle of a controversy. Their star wrestler, an Olympic hopeful, had been accused of rape. Then again, she mused as she dodged around a group of lingerers, there had been no reason to connect an expelled man with an off-campus double murder. Now, though, there was. There was a huge connection. Somehow, someway, the deadly anti-rape device had found its way to campus. Sara looked around at the young women. They were all so fresh, hopeful, and full of potential. One in ten of them, she knew, would be sexually assaulted by the time they turned thirty-five and another tenth of them were, statistically speaking, assaulted before the age of fifteen. Sara turned a circle, looking at the in-between-class crowd. Some of them might be in possession, or even wielding, if that was the right word, a deadly weapon right now. 

Greg had filled her in on the specifics of the case; he had probably gotten a little too specific for Catherine's taste. The two cases, the double and now the wrestler in the motel room, were different. The first had been an obvious snatch off the street and rape gone wrong and the other had been planned. Marsh had been lured, drugged, and then assaulted. Their killer though, had not gotten away exactly clean. She wasn't sure about physical evidence, but they had definitely left a vital clue for them to follow: their incompetence. If the overdose had been an accident, it showed that the perp was an amateur, someone who had never employed date rape drugs before.

She leaned towards that possibility, because a planned overdose would have been easier to pull off and hide if the killer had used GHB or Ketamine. GHB was harder trace because its traces disappeared and were broke down by decomposition within hours. Ketamine, on the other hand, was a much wider used party drug that wouldn't have looked as suspicious. This perp had just jumped into the big bad world of date rape with only a rudimentary understanding of what he was doing.

In the end, though, dead was dead, and everything came back to UNLV. It was, besides the device, the common thread in the two crimes. Both victims had been athletes too. Erica had been the Women's Soccer Team goalie and Dedrick had been a wrestler. Sara made a mental note to schedule an appointment with the school Athletic Director. Two dead athletes in less than a week was more than a coincidence. Something wasn't quite right in Rebel Country.

Author's Note: This chapter would have been up some time ago, but had other ideas.


	15. Chapter XIV: Nostalgia

_Author's Note : I know, I usually tack this on at the end, but hey whose story is this anyway? First off, it's a two for one night. That's two chapters in one evening. You know you love me for it. Secondly, please reveiw, you know you want to. Now sit back and read, you know you want to. _

_Chapter XIV_

_Nostalgia_

Greg - Sofia quickly decided - and his faded jeans with ragged cuffs, black Marilyn Manson tee shirt, streaky spiked hair and crooked grin looked more like a student than a CSI on her investigative team. She looked at the young students passing by her from the round concrete table they'd staked out by the building that Catherine had pointed out as the one that had the records office in it. Since the blonde CSI had "an in" with the records office, Sofia was more than happy to let her go in herself and get the records they needed. Greg was sitting on one of the old cement benches that circled the table, legs stretched out in front of him, and Sofia would bet high roller money that he was ogling the co-eds around them behind his dark sunglasses.

She chuckled, "They're barely legal, Sanders."

He grinned, "The key word there is _legal_, Sofia, and besides I see the girl for me coming around the corner."

She followed his eye line and had to smile. Sara Sidle didn't look like a co-ed, she had a fresh maturity, and a confident walk: she was a first year professor. She was the one that had all the boys, and some of the girls, sitting in the front row and hanging on her every word. Taupe slacks, a casual white top that revealed a hint of the blue tee beneath it, aviator glasses that hid her eyes and a dark sweep of strait hair. If only Sofia's college professors had been half as gorgeous. Sara reached them and grinned at them both. "Stop ogling me like that." Sofia almost protested, but since Sara was pointing her finger and smiling at Greg, she realized she was in the clear and wisely kept her mouth shut.

Sara stretched, "God this all makes me feel so _old_." Scoffed, "Three kids called me _ma'am_ when I stopped to ask directions to this building."

Greg laughed, "Oh c'mon you're not old, Sar, I mean Catherine's got like, what,_ ten years_ on you?" He waited a single silent beat, "She's standing right behind me, isn't she?"

Sara and Sofia both tried, very valiantly, not to laugh. Catherine, who was standing on the first of many steps that lea to the door of Hunter Hall didn't look like she was laughing. "I hope you can catch a ride back to the lab, Greg."

The shaggy-haired CSI looked at Sara, "Be a pal."

Sara shrugged one shoulder, "Sorry, I'm on the bike and I didn't bring an extra helmet."

Greg groaned, Catherine snorted and Sofia only chuckled. "Don't worry, Sanders, I'll call a black and white for you, you can ride in the back."

That time, Sara didn't even try not to laugh.

Catherine, on the other hand, was not amused. She had two files in her hand, and Sofia would swear that there was one less button fastened on her shirt. "Are we going to work the case or would you guys like to apply for Rush Week?"

Greg pursed his face in disgust, "Greeks are freaks."

Sara nodded her agreement, "Speaking of: were either of our victims Greeks?"

Catherine put the two files on the rough concrete table. "No, both were athletes, though."

Sofia flipped open one of the files. "Mick told Sara and me that there hadn't been any rapes on campus."

Sara held up the newspaper she'd picked up on her walk, "But the "Sound Off!" section of the _Rebel Gazette_ says differently. One of our vics was caught up in a rape controversy."

Catherine nodded, "I'm still getting all the information on that, the detective handling it is on medical leave for a thrown back, but it's a pretty messy case and the University kept it out of the media as much as they could."

Greg nodded, "Days caught it, but I heard bits and pieces, it was a shaky case. Our best case scenario had him pleading down to sexual battery." He picked up the girl's file, "And she had nothing to do with it."

Sara looked over his shoulder at the file for a moment. "There was a possibility that she was raped before."

For a moment, the none of the four spoke, then Catherine put the paper she'd been going over down. "That's the first I've heard of that, what evidence do you have to support that?"

Sara shrugged, "I talked to her roommate a little, she'd been showing signs of post rape traumatic syndrome."

Catherine tilted her head, "They told you that she'd been raped, unless they had front-row tickets, it's hear-say."

A frown flew across Sara's face, "It's not hear-say, it's instinct." The last part was said with a little less confidence than usual and the other three investigators were just a little shocked. Scientist to the bone, Sara Sidle, acting on something as intangible as gut instinct, it was out of the ordinary to say the least. Catherine opened her mouth to comment, but for some reason that Sofia couldn't quite pin down, she closed it again and only shrugged. For her part, Sara stared hard at some indiscernible point over Catherine's shoulder.

Sofia shrugged, and picked up the girls' school file, which combined with their own file, laid out a sketch of the woman Erica Green had been becoming, and handed it off to Sara. "We are officially grasping at straws here, no offence, Sara."

Sara took the folder, flipped it open and began ruffling through its pages. "Maybe, maybe not."

Sofia shrugged, stranger things had happened. "We've already talked to Erica Green's RA, roommates, parents and her coach." She scowled at the last mention. "Jim had to remind the coach where my eyes were, three times during a ten minute interview. Nevertheless, there's the Athletic Director and now the Wrestling team and Marsh's listed roommates to talk to." Catherine grimaced, "I'll pass on the wrestlers, they worry about their weight more than most women." After a few seconds thought, she looked at Greg, "You have fun with the boys, Sanders."

Greg Sanders knew when he was beaten. He put on a pout that was only half-fake. "Wrestling is not my kind of sport. The guys will want to roll around with me _and_ there are no hottie-hot-hottie cheerleaders." Catherine, half smiling now, patted his shoulder, "The Mackellen Gym, go past the library and hang a left, you can't miss it." The CSI 1 left grumbling and Sofia looked at Sara, "Hottie Hot Hottie?" Sara grinned andshook her head as she walked around the table and looked at the many fliers that had been pinned to the side of the steps that lead up to the doors of Hunter Hall. "Greg's got the wrestlers, Catherine can take the Atheletics Director -" She ripped one of the flyers down, "while we talk to these people."

Catherine craned her head to see the flyer, "Tan?"

Sofia joined the two women and looked down at the paper for a moment before rolling her blue eyes, "More anagrams and feminists, you really know how to show a girl a good time, Sara." Catherine looked between the blonde detective and the brunette CSI, "Care to explain that to me?"

Sara smoothed the flyer out on the table, "T-A-N, Take Action Now, it's a grassroots radical feminist group dedicated to stopping rape. It's a step-up from Take Back The Night here on campus. Linda, Erica's roommate mentioned that she was going to meetings down at the student center, and Erica had a matching flyer in her personal effects. It could be a lead." Sofia took the flier for herself, "Couldn't hurt, besides, there's bound to be coffee somewhere in the student center."

Since classes were in session, the campus had, for the most part, settled down. Sara and Sofia passed one or two students studying, taking an early lunch, hanging out, or sun bathing as they followed the directions Catherine had given them to the student center. Sofia looked around the campus, "She sure is familiar with the campus, is this Catherine's school?"

Sara shook her head, "WLVU, the cross-city rival, I think I heard her telling Warrick that she brought Lindsey here for a tour."

Sofia shrugged and they walked, for a few minutes in silence. "My Mother wanted me to go to Oklahoma U, and my Dad had reserved me a spot at his school, University of Virginia since before I was born. They both about killed me when I took my basketball scholarship at PITT."

Sara looked around to confirm their approximate location in relationship to the directions Catherine had rattled off. "Pittsburgh, huh? Go Panthers." Sofia pulled a plastic covered toothpick out of her pocket, "Last time I checked, we beat Harvard into the ground." Sara huffed, "I am not going to dignify that with an answer. We are both too old for a 'My alma-mater is better than yours' argument." Sofia grinned, "So you know when you're beat."

"Sara!"

Both women looked over their shoulder to see if the shouter was trying to get Sara's attention. Sofia looked around and humphed. Sara waited a beat then abruptly turned and started walking again, "Big campus, common name, it happens all the time." The brunette's voice seemed a little strained, but Sofia shrugged it off.

"Sara Sidle!"

This time, Sofia came to a full stop and turned all the way around: had Catherine forgotten something? Sara hadn't stopped and since Sofia didn't see Catherine, she had to pick up her pace to catch back up with the criminalist. "Sara do you think -"

"SARA!"

The voice was more insistent that time, but because of the many buildings and unfamiliar surroundings, Sofia wasn't quite sure where the voice was coming from.

Sara, for her part, was deliberately ignoring it. "I hope the student center has an ATM, I could really use a cup of coffee."

"SAHARA SUN SIDLE!"

Before Sofia could even speak, Sara grabbed her wrist, "C'mon." Sara's dark glasses had slipped just a little and Sofia could see panic in the other woman's eyes. Whoever was calling for Sara, it was obvious that Sara didn't want to speak to them. Sofia's hand fell to her holstered sidearm.

"SARA!"

An unreadable expression went across Sara's face and she turned to face the woman - the voice was far too high to belong to a man - and ran directly into a kiss.

It was the sort of kiss that made people, even jaded college students who were used to performances of public affection that bordered on pornography, stop, and stare.

Sofia could barely blink and found herself short of words.

Catherine, who had been forced to track down the Athletic Director, stared slack-jawed from a smaller walkway a couple of yards away.

Across the walk, on the steps of the gym, Greg struggled to make sounds out of his tight throat.

Wild gold curls tumbled over and French tipped-nails threaded through Sara's rain straight dark locks. The two women were locked in their own little world. There was a strange woman kissing Sara Sidle -- that didn't happen every day. What was more intriguing, amazing, and downright flabbergasting was that Sara Sidle was kissing her back.

Author's Note 2.0 : (insert malicious laughter) Wern't expecting that were you?


	16. Chapter XV: The Ex

_Chapter XV_

_The Ex_

She had almost forgotten, but everything that had been buried so deep for so long came back in an instant. It was strait out of the past, like a bad movie flash back. Everything slowed down for just a minute and Sara found herself falling back through time. The overwhelming buzz that made her higher brain functions go haywire. The sweet tang of honey on her tongue. The light, sweet hints of cinnamon and sandalwood. The silky smooth press of lips against her own. When Sara pried her eyes back open, she was staring into painfully familiar blue eyes. Far more shaken than she'd like to admit, Sara stepped back, took a deep breath, tried to bring the spinning world back into focus and coughed to clear her suddenly tight and parched throat.

"Alex."

The name, two short syllables, left a cloying bittersweet aftertaste in Sara's mouth.

Alexandra Dupree had been one of the things Sara had left behind her in San Francisco. Left without looking back, it had been a quick, cold parting. Now, when her life was a chaotic mess, Alex walked right back into it. Typical. The other woman had always had a tremendous sense of timing. Of course, in Sara's opinion, any time this side of the Apocalypse would have been too soon to see her ex lover again. Was it so horribly wrong to wish your ex into a deep black, nameless void that they could never escape, or at least a Guatemalan prison?

Sara's gaze fell to Sofia, still silently standing beside her. She blinked three times and realized that while time had slowed down for her, it had really only been seconds. A part of her still-rebooting frontal lobe registered the fact that it was polite to make introductions.

"Sofia, this is Alex Dupree, an old -"

Never one to be quiet when she could be heard, Alex flashed one of her trademark smiles and smoothly interrupted Sara, "Lover. It's nice to meet you"

Alex's blue eyes darted to the badge displayed on Sofia's belt, "Inspector."

Sara scrubbed her palms over her face, which only made it redder and pinched the bridge on her straight nose between her thumb and forefinger.

Alex glossed over Sara's mortification and smiled at her. Sofia only got a quick once over and, apparently, found unworthy of her attention. "Had I known you'd run off to Vegas, Sahara," Alex let her sunglasses dangle off the end of her finger and winked seductively, "I would have visited_Sin_ City sooner."

Sara stepped back again and everyone, even Catherine, who was still a few steps away, saw the shutters drop hard and fast in her eyes and her face go blank and hard, like a piece of stone that the sculptor had yet to chisel. "And if I'd known you were here, I would have brought the SWAT Team."

Alex laughed; it was a throaty chuckle that ensnared the libido of more than one person there, whether they were willing or not.

Sara didn't even flinch, "We're here on LVPD business, _Miss Dupree_ and since I know you don't have anything to contribute, we'll be leaving."

Alex smiled again, "All work and no play, huh? Sara, I can see that much has not changed." She tossed her hair and looked Sara up and down, slowly, her champagne colored eyes taking everything in, "No not much has changed at all."

Sara recoiled as if she'd been slapped but quickly recovered, "You'd be surprised."

Catherine chose that exact moment to strut into the conversation. "Sidle, what the _hell_ is going on over here?" For a moment, everyone's attention shifted from the two ex lovers to Catherine and that, mused Sofia, pleased the supervisor to no end. Catching Sara Sidle in an uncomfortable position probably pleased her even more. "I was under the impression that we were _working_ here, Sara, not looking for a date to the Spring Formal." It seemed like Catherine's less than friendly attitude relaxed Sara more then it made things worse. Of course, since Catherine's bitchy attitude was the rule and not the exception it was probably nice to have something normal as a ground.

Sara turned to Catherine and gave her a tight smile. "I was just leaving."

The tension in the air was so thick it would have given a machete pause. "You're _the_ Alex Dupree!" His quick announcement was loud, as though he'd just had an amazing epiphany.

Catherine was somewhat less then amused. "Okay, so now we all know each other."

Greg's jaw was still slack. "But you're… she's Alex Dupree, the lioness of the catwalk, the face that enchanted millions."

"Greg. Shut it." Sara's words were forced through clenched teeth and neither Sofia nor Catherine could ever remember the brunette being so harsh with the former lab rat.

The spiky haired CSI's voice trailed off and he looked hurt.

Alex, on the other hand, laughed again. "Temper, temper, Sahara."

Sofia could see Catherine's light brow shoot up while she mouthed a silent 'Sahara?'

Sara blew out an impatient breath. "Well then, we - Detective Curtis and I - will be on our way, then. Thank you, Alex, for embarrassing me in front of my colleges, again, and I hope I never see you again, ever."

Sofia cleared her throat, "O-kay, it was nice meeting you, Miss Dupree." She looked over at Sara and jerked her head, "We have to go." She pulled Sara along, putting her hand on the small of the other woman's back to guide her away.

The three remaining people watched them go. Greg's jaw was still hanging wide open, Catherine had her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes sparked dangerously. Alex looked cool and collected and a little bit intrigued.

* * *

Sara and Sofia walked and didn't look back until they were around a corner and several hundred yards away. When Sofia was sure they were out of range, she stopped. Sara was a private person and she definitely didn't appreciate public displays. As the woman was currently slumped against the brick wall of one of the university's buildings, Sofia would bet she wasn't as composed as she had appeared earlier. 

Sara had shoved her sunglasses onto the top of her head to reveal that her eyes were closed. She concentrated on the rough brick wall at her back and the breeze ruffling through her hair. They were tactile, solid, and real. She knew Sofia was looking at her, wondering, judging.

"Please _don't_."

Sara opened her eyes and looked at Sofia, "It's an extremely long story. We've been over for _years_ and she just decided to do _that_. God."

Sofia only shrugged and help up her hands in mock surrender. "Trust me, I have enough of my own bad ex stories to last a life time."

Sara forced a chuckle, "Just give me a minute to regroup and we can go talk to these T.A.N. Girls."

Sofia nodded and fished in her pocket for a toothpick only to find empty wrappers and less than a dollars worth of spare change. She found a quarter and ran it through her fingers while they stood there. "So I do have one question."

Sara gave her a look that would reduce glass to sand. "_Sahara?_"

Sofia grinned quickly, "C'mon, tell me she was high when she gave you that nickname."

Sara laughed, a real laugh. "Well I am a child of the seventies, so pot cannot be discounted from the process, but it _is_ my given name."

Sofia blinked, "Are you serious? Sahara Sidle? Wow."

Sara straightened up, "Sahara Sun Sidle, which is a mouthful."

Sofia arched a brow, "It's exotic."

Sara pushed off the wall completely, "It's eccentric, which is why I stopped answering to it an extremely long time ago."

They were walking again, shoulder to shoulder; they'd fallen into pace with each other without thinking about it. "Well, all that aside, Sahara," That earned her a glare, "We need to go find those mini-feminists."

Sara grinned, slid her sunglasses back on and Sofia could tell that despite what had just transpired, the woman was back in control of herself and ready to do the job.

* * *

The student center was a bustling mass of scarlet tee shirts, thick books, and Ipod cords. There was eclectic aroma coming from the cafeteria's hit and miss food offerings and someone somewhere had ESPN on. There were meeting rooms here and there and wall mounted flat screens flashed advertisements for local businesses, school events, the weather, and an update on the Rebels football schedule. 

Sara looked around, her eyes quickly taking everything in. "The flyer said the meetings are held every day in the Conference Room C-wherever the hell that is."

Finding the conference room had taken a few more minutes than it probably should have, but they did find it with only one moment of weakness outside of the university coffee-shop. Much like the S.N.N.O.W meeting, this meeting in UNLV's Student Center's Conference Room C was marked by a multitude of young women.

They came in all shapes, creeds and styles. There were tall, athletic blondes that could probably trace their heritages straight back to Sweden. There were curvy girls that had enough metal pierced through their faces to make a small statue. There were older women, adult students who probably acted as advisers and girls who were obviously freshmen students.

Sara took three photos: a blown up copy of Erica Green and Dedrick Marsh's university issued Ids. She had also brought one of Stewart Finnigan's mug-shots. They intended to show them around. Sara knew that Marsh's picture would be met with scorn and Finnigans would, logically speaking, not be recognized at all. She was really interested in Erica Green. Who had her friends been, did they know where she could have gotten her hands on a device, who else had them?

Usually when dealing with big groups, they would split up and work from each end and meet in the middle.

Sofia, though, had firmly rejected that idea. "I am _way_ out of my element. Last time I went to one of these things with you, I ended up being hit on and lectured about how brilliant you are."

They moved around the room, looking around for whoever was in charge. "Hey! Don't knock Professor Blake, she was more than just my adviser. She looked out for all of the odd-ducks that came through her office. Helped us pick classes, told us who and what to avoid. She was down to earth and didn't kiss up to the Kennedy types. She even kept her house open to us. She lived right off of campus and told us she'd rather have a bunch of drunken co-eds crashing in her den than have us wandering around campus and town. I can't count the times I woke up on her couch completely confused."

Sofia narrowly dodged a girl with bright pink hair. "I had one of those too, except it was my coach and any time she caught us drunk or hung over she'd run us until we puked and then we'd run some more."

Sara smiled, "Ah, college life."

The girl in charge, or at least the girl who appeared to be in charge, had short, choppy black hair that spiked around her face and a nose ring. "I'm sorry, you missed the lecture and the Q and A, but I think someone recorded it. I can get you a copy if you'd like. Which station are you with?"

The girl had obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion and Sofia unclipped her badge from her belt and held it out for the girl to see. "We're from the Police Station, I'm Detective Sofia Curtis and this is Sara Sidle from the Crime Lab. We have a few questions for you."

The girl looked from one of them to the other. "Okay, I'm Kera Hiene, what's going on? Is this about Erica?"

Both women nodded and the girl put the stack of pamphlets she'd been holding on a table. "Anything I can do to help. Erica was practically family."

Due to the sensitive nature of the discussion, Sara and Sofia had decided to move to one of the smaller conference rooms on the first floor to interview Kera and some of the other girls. Passing back by the coffee shop was completely incidental. Sara sipped her heavily caffeinated brew and looked across the table at Kera, their last interview of the day.

"When did Erica start coming to your meetings?"

Kera was the University's T.A.N. President and, apparently, an active protester. "Um, a few months ago, I'd have to check my attendance logs. She was great. Really started to get serious about the cause."

Sofia nodded and slid the picture of the late Stewart Finnigan across the small table. "Did you ever see him hanging around her, or the school maybe? Could he have been an ex boyfriend or someone who was a little too interested?"

The raven haired young woman shrugged, "He doesn't look familiar and he's definitely not her boyfriend past or present. Is he the one who-who raped her?"

Slightly perturbed by the efficiency of the university grape vine, Sofia nodded stiffly. "Are you sure you didn't see him?"

The girl shook her head again, "He's dead too, right?"

Again, Sofia nodded and frowned when she heard what Kendra had to say next. "Well, if he raped her, he deserved to die."

Sara shrugged uncomfortably, "That's neither here nor there. What we would like to know is if you have ever seen this." She slid a fourth picture across the table. It was the cross-sectioned device that they had removed from Erica's body.

Kera looked from the picture to the investigators. "What the _hell_ is _that?_"

Author's Note: If you're wondering where the idea for Alex Dupree came from, look way back at 'Angels of Vegas'. While the stories aren't connected in any way, the idea of an ex for Sara was too good to let go.


	17. Chapter XVI: Evidence

_Chapter XVI_

_Evidence_

Catherine had photographs blown up and closely cropped, the physical bindled and bagged, evidence and the corresponding reports from the various lab techs lined up like toy soldiers on the lay out table before her. All the details of Dedrick Marsh's twisted murder were spread out in front of her. To the untrained eye, it was a random assortment of angle shots, pale waxy fleshed limbs and blood pools. To Catherine it laid out a story, or part of one at least.

There was a stamp on the top of Marsh's left hand, it was a smudged, generic 'Paid' stamp in fluorescent orange. He had been at one of the city's many clubs before he'd died. Though she could immediately rule out some of the larger clubs, there were still hundreds of clubs and bars, some of which were underground and popped up in different places every single night. In essence, he could have been anywhere, or he could have been nowhere, there was no way of accurately telling. There were, happily enough, a few pieces of evidence that did add something to her investigation. There were several dark hairs, some shed from the head and a few shorter, curlier pubic hairs. When they had a suspect, a warrant, and a chance, Wendy could compare the profiles. Until then, it would sit in the cooler for preservation. There were fingerprints, mostly smudges and partials, most specifically one clear and perfect thumb print. It wasn't in the system, Mandi had run it through AFIS twice, but again, when they found a suspect, it would cement the case.

Catherine looked over at the uni's canvas report. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything and nobody knew anything, all three monkeys in a row. Of course, combine that with the diluted blood in the motel room's bathtub drain and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that the killer had cleaned herself up before leaving. The number of smudges also suggested that the killer wiped things down before she left.

They were looking for a brunette woman who thought she could outsmart them. There were only about a million women, give or take, who fit the description in the city, not counting transgenders and dye jobs. Of course that left the UNLV connection, if it was a connection at all. Sometimes, some cases were just flukes. Statistical anomalies that jumped up and bit you in the ass, she had seen her fair share of cases like that. Brunette female who had a holier then thou art complex, that sounded incredibly familiar. Despite an earlier promise to herself not to think about, Catherine's brows knit. Sara had never mentioned the fact that she had dated one of the world's most in demand fashion models. Of course, there weren't many conversations one could interject such a fact into, but still.

Sara Sidle, queen of the nerds, and Alex Dupree, arguably one of the most beautiful women on the planet. It just didn't make sense. How had they even met? Sara wasn't the type of women who went to fashion shows, hell she'd never even seen Sara read a fashion magazine. All the woman had in her apartment had been Forensics Journals, Physics journals, gun magazines and one single issue of Fitness Today, and books, an innumerable amount of books. They had obviously been an item back in San Francisco. A white-hot item, if that kiss was any indicator.

Kiss: Sara had kissed another woman. That wasn't what bothered Catherine, not by a very long shot. Sara was fooling around when she and Gil were supposed to be an over-the-moon-happy couple. Sara was little better when that EMT that had used her as his side-dish.

For a very self-gratifying moment, Catherine let her anger simmer and bubble while she looked over the many reports and mentally recorded any similarities between her and Sara's - that two faced bitch - cases. She was halfway through the documents when logic and reason started seeping back into her thought process. Sara hadn't met Alexandra Dupree with open arms. It had been a _very_ frosty reception after they ended the kiss that Catherine knew good and well Sara hadn't instigated. She would _love_ to hear the story behind that.

Speaking of Sara, why had Wendy flagged a copy of the blood-work for her? Flagged with a neon-pink post-it-note with Sara's name in big block letters, Wendy was rarely so insistent about things. Catherine shuffled the assorted DNA reports and pushed her reading glasses closer up on her nose. At first inspection, it was a normal cross-and-type non-genetic blood comparison, which was standard procedure in double homicides. On second, and closer look, the third of three entries for comparison had been referenced from the compliance database: Sidle, Sara; blood type B-. Why would Wendy compare Sara's blood work to Stewart Finnegan and Erica Green's? She leaned her hip against the layout table and tilted her head as she read. She spotted Wendy's looped cursive writing near the bottom of the report, beside the last column. 'One less thing to worry about.'

Catherine looked back to the top where the columns were labelled and then ran her finger down the paper, dragging her nail across the three entries. Each of the three people typed had come up HIV and AIDS negative. Catherine tapped her manicured nail against her lip, both were painted an identical shade of burgundy. The only reason Sara would have been tested was if she had come into contact with their blood, and since she knew damn well there were only a few ways that could happen, there was only one logical conclusion. Miss Workaholic, 'My close rate is eight percent higher than yours' had a fucking accident on the clock and hadn't reported it to her direct supervisor.

Catherine felt her pulse jump. "Son of a _bitch_." As if she didn't have better things to do than check on Sara Sidle's boo-boos.

A quick trip to her office would give her access to the inter-office email. If there wasn't an accident report waiting for her approval in her in-box, she would have a legitimate reason to yank Sara into her office for a dress-down that the other woman had more than earned.

Unfortunately for her and very fortunately for Sara, there was an email from Doctor Albert Robbins detailing the incident that had taken place in the morgue. Catherine stewed for a moment on that. Since it had happened in Robbin's part of the building, it hadn't been Sara's place to file the report, anyway. Damn it.

The report, signed by Sidle and Robbins as witnessed by Detective Sofia Curtis and Dave, my hadn't it been crowded down in the autopsy bay that night, was by the book, it had even been spell checked. Catherine bared her teeth at the report. She still had to make a note in Sara's file and then make sure it got notated in her hard-copy jacket. Oh the joys of being a supervisor. A quick succession of harder than absolutely necessary keystrokes later had her logged into the LVPD Personnel Database. Another quick pounding of keys brought up Sara's file. Catherine quickly scanned down the file. Important information such as her social security, birth date, physical description, rank and ID number were listed off in neat rows beside her updated ID photo. Bellow that was her current assignment, CSI III on the Graveyard Shift. Another section had career notations, the most recent listing dealt with Sara's return to full duty after her recovery from her kidnapping. Though it wasn't really her area, and snooping was technically frowned upon, Catherine was Sara's direct supervisor and if there were any more blonde haired blue-eyed lip-locking skeletons in Sidle's closet, Catherine had the right to know about them. It was caution, or maybe just bold-faced guilt that had her standing up, closing her tiny office's door and closing the blinds before she sat back down to look at the detailed file.

She scrolled down the file. There were tie-ins with her reviews and evaluations, probably buffed up by her supervisor-cum-lover Gil and case notations. If Catherine was so inclined, she could pull up any and every case Sara had worked on in her career. Since she knew about most of them, she continued to scroll down.

Jesus, Sara was an Eagle Scout, or whatever the Girl Scout equivalent was. Catherine almost laughed out loud. Early graduation from high school, magna cum laude from Harvard, magna cum laude from Berkley, top of her Academy class, close rate in the high eighties throughout her career, hell in 1998, it had cracked ninety percent, which only a handful of CSIs in the world could claim. Catherine blinked and scrolled back up. Why on earth did it jump from '98 to her Vegas records? Sara hadn't come into Vegas until 2000. She checked again, the last entry from SFPD was dated December 5th of 1998. There was over a year missing from Sara's service jacket. Catherine had her fingers poised over the keys, ready to launch into a further investigation into Sara's file when her cell phone began to vibrate and chime.


	18. Chapter XVII: The Hunt

Author's Note: The following chapter is not for the feint of heart. It is rated a very strong M for graphic violence, sexual content and some nudity.

_Chapter XVII_

_The Hunt_

The music was fast, heavy on the bass and primal; it reminded her of a frantically beating heart. The chaotic flashing lights illuminated the crowd of dancing people on the floor. From her place at the elevated bar area, they looked like a mass of pulsating maggots. The warehouse-like club and bar smelled sharp, tangy and mysterious, an intoxicating mix of smoke, musk and sweat. The sweet burn of alcohol on her tongue and sliding down her throat was sharply contrasted by the cold glass in her hand. All the sensory input overwhelmed her: the sights, the sounds, the promise of every type of dark and seedy sin. Everything the club offered paled in comparison to the intensity of the adrenaline-fuelled typhoon that was trapped inside her mind and body. The thrill of the hunt eclipsed everything else; even the most potent of drugs wouldn't be able to touch this high.

Jackpot! One of Vegas's countless independent clubs was packed, which didn't surprise her. College Night's half price cover and endless Happy Hour was very appealing to the heavy-drinking and tight-fisted crowd of twenty-somethings with a school ID. College students, of course, weren't the only ones who came in. There were tourists, regulars and post-grads who hadn't completely removed themselves from college life. Statistically speaking it would be a 64-36 split, with men being the dominant count. The club had a large capacity, 500 people, which meant that there were 320 men, give or take, in the building. That meant there were 320 predators just waiting for a woman to slip up. Unfortunately for the perverts, she was one of the 180 women who had packed into the club. She had come alone, clad in a short, seductive, slightly slutty, black dress. She didn't intend to leave alone, not by a long shot.

The DJ was spinning a rap song that was the flavor of the week and the crowd on the dance floor responded with a roar of approval. Those who were drinking, gabbing and flirting on the higher level bobbed their heads along with the beat. A quick survey of the crowd gave her a better idea of what sort of people had crammed themselves into Jackpot!

A group of young men, college age, took up the large horseshoe corner booth and spilled over into the couch that had been pushed against the wall. There were even a guy on each end of the coffee table. She recognized the three distinct Greek letters of an on-campus Frat and quickly dismissed the idea of picking one of the young men off. Greeks were well known for sticking together and even though it would be an intense, well-honed message to send, she knew it was too risky to mess with a Fraternity Brother. The long L-shaped bar was a much more fertile hunting ground. She smiled at the phrase. Jackpot was her hunting ground and as one face in particular caught her attention, she decided to move in for the _kill._

* * *

"Aren't we a little old for college girls, Bryce?" Preston Abernathy raised his hand to his neck to tug at the tie that he had discarded hours ago and frowned at the hand that acted out of ingrained habit. His frown only deepened when he saw the thin white band that marked the place that his wedding band usually took. It felt wrong to go without the gold band that matched his wife's. Of course, as Bryce had reminded him several times, Kim was at home with Jonah, their two-year-old son. He definitely wasn't in Savannah and this definitely wasn't the Claims Adjustment Workshop and Lecture series that work was paying him to attend. Bryce, the bad boy of the office, had convinced him to do this though. 

He was in a booming club, surrounded by beautiful young women in Vegas. It almost made him forget that he was pushing thirty, stuck in a paper-pushing middle-management position, the father of a two-year-old hellion and married to a woman that hadn't initiated sex in a year and a half. So when a pretty, barely legal babe in a skimpy uniform brought him his third, or was it fourth, drink of the evening, he smiled and decided maybe what happened in Vegas really stayed here.

Preston and Bryce leaned against the railing that served as a guard against sloppy drunks who stumbled too close to the level's edge.

Bryce, yet another drink in hand, gave Preston a lopsided grin. "All right, Buddy, there's a blonde and a brunette. They're both young, hot and checking us out, which one you want?"

Preston chuckled and motioned with his drink, "_She_ sort of looks like Marisol in Accounts Payable."

Bryce laughed so hard he almost spilled his drink." Go for it, Man."

* * *

She picked him out quickly and without regret. He was too old to be ogling college chicks anyway. She started out casually enough, a few looks and a little smile to catch his interest. Then she sent him a quick glance that turned into a second look that eventually connected to a gaze. A long, drawn out and very sexy gaze. He ordered her a drink within five minutes and after one drink of it, she called him over with the universal come-hither finger crook. She could see it in his eyes, he was hooked and she had to smile. 

It was too fucking easy.

The next round of drinks, she whispered into his ear and leaned up against him. They were so close he knew her cup size and if they got any closer, he'd be able to tell her how old she'd been when she'd had her appendix removed. It disgusted her. She made sure, though, that when she walked over to the bar in her scandalously short skirt, his eyes were glued to her ass. Pig.

What she made sure he didn't see, what she made sure no one else noticed, was the quick twitch of her wrist that dumped Rohypnol into his drink. She had cut the dose down by more than half; she didn't want this guy to overdose and feel nothing. It completely defeated the purpose of what she was doing.

She was learning -- wouldn't Mother be proud?

They had danced, one quick and fumbling fast dance to a song she'd heard chiming off on a thousand cell phones. Intent on getting lucky, he hailed a cab and whisked them off to his motel. The cabby leaned at the two of them in his rear view mirror. He was just another pervert in a city, a world, full of perverts.

Despite the usual ungodly traffic, the trip back uptown only lasted ten minutes. His motel was far closer to the Strip than she would have guessed. It was also, she observed while he shakily shoved a couple of twenties through the window at the cabbie, much nicer than he looked like he could afford. The four-story motel was actually very nice, four stories with every room sporting a balcony that looked down at a courtyard. His room even had a view of the cerulean blue waters of the pool. He was too discombobulated to slide the card-key through the lock so she had to do it for him.

One quick look in his slightly nicer than standard-grade room told her that her first impression had been right, he couldn't afford the nice room himself, he was bunking with a friend. There were two beds in the room and she would bet big money that his buddy Bruce or Brian or whatever he'd _said_his name was, slept in the other.

The thought that someone might walk in on what was about to happen gave her a moment's pause. It lasted only a single moment, though. Any fear or second thought was quickly washed away by the addictive thrill of what she was doing. When he turned to her, a lopsided grin on his lax face and lust burning dully in his eyes, it was all worth it.

She turned a slow circle, playing her part to the hilt, "Nice digs." She almost laughed as she turned, he had expected to bring company home. There were _candles_ on each side of the bed, held up by large ugly candle holders and a basketful, literally a wicker basket filled to the top with individually packaged ribbed for her pleasure condoms. She tucked the laughter away for a moment and because he was far beyond being able to be trusted with matches, she lit the candles.

Her eyes widened for a moment while she watched the tiny flame eat away at the match between her thumb and forefinger. She licked her dry lips when the spark made the leap from the match to the still-rigid wick of the candle. She didn't shake the match out immediately, but let it burnt down. She killed the flame only after she felt the sharp and sudden pain nip at her fingers. She repeated the ritual with the other candle while he clumsily undressed himself. His words, which had only been a distant drone in her ears when she'd been handling the matches, finally caught her attention. He was promising her a good time.

If he only knew.

Impatient now, she pushed him onto the bed and he fell like a rag doll. For a moment she just lay there, but then he started to crab-crawl towards the head of the bed. The drugs had him woozy enough, but he wasn't quite out for the count yet. If she pointed the way, he would have enough brainpower to understand what came next. They always did. She started to shimmy out of her dress and the skimpy lace panties and let them drop to the floor. It wasn't a sexy strip scene and she didn't even try to entice him. Being a man, he was enticed anyway. She knelt on the bed and felt it sag beneath her weight. He was fighting with his pants and jockies at the head of the bed. She crawled on her hands and knees up the bed. She was slow and methodical, and never took her eyes off of his. She was like a large cat, precise, feral, deadly and he was her unwitting prey.

She crawled over him and put one of her legs across him so she was straddling his naked body. Her legs on each side of his hips, her knees taking most of her weight. She leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, partly to help balance herself, but mostly to hold him down. He was mumbling and she couldn't make out what he was saying, not that it mattered. He was hard and ready and she didn't know who Kim was, but when she flexed her hips above him, he whispered the name again, almost reverently. He reached up to touch her face and she turned away from his hand. She angled her hips down to take his penis inside of her and waited for the satisfying sound of his screams. She waited until he was all the way inside of her then jerked her hips up. He howled like a kicked dog. Two more pumps of her hips brought screams and blood gushing between their legs.

He was begging her to stop, pain and drugs slurring his words. She twisted her hips as she pulled back up again and smiled when his screams went up a full octave. She wasn't sure if it was impulse or instinct, but her right hand darted out and grabbed the heavy wooden candleholder. The white scalding liquid wax flew all over her hand and face before the candle fell to the floor and rolled away from the bed. The candle's wick was snuffed out in the fall and a thin curl of smoke listlessly floated towards the scene.

She hit the screaming man across the right side of his face. The sound of wood impacting flesh was more of an aphrodisiac than the booze, the candles or the sight of his erect member had ever thought of being. She brought the square base of the candleholder down on his forehead, and then she reared back and hit his mouth as hard as she could. Pieces of shattered teeth and a spray of fire engine red and bubbling warm splash of his blood splattered across her face. It went inside of her wide open. She gasped at the carnal thrill of what she was doing and raised the candleholder high over her head again to hit him. His body twitched and shook beneath her and then he lay still.

His death, brutal and bloody, had been far more satisfactory than any carnal pleasure he could have given her. She reached between their legs and her fingers found the slick lip of the wonderful weapon inside her and twisted it to release it's teeth. Now free of the dead bastard's penis, she rolled off his body and looked at herself in the mirror over the sink against the far wall. Blood dripped down her pale skin, white wax stood out starkly against her hair and she had a wide grin on her face.

She took a step towards the bathroom, not caring in the least that she was stepping on his clothes, when she felt a hard, round object under the soft pad of her foot. She bent down in the semi-dark room and found the object. It was a simple gold ring. He had been married. She turned the ring over in her hand, smearing his own blood over his wedding ring. She took it with her to the bathroom. It didn't exactly match, but she sure this ring would compliment the State Championship ring she'd taken off of Dedrick Marsh's dead hand. She rubbed her hands together to get the wax coating off her palm and fingers as she walked towards the shower and made a mental note to pick up the blood spattered candleholder on her way out. It would look nice in her room.


	19. Chapter XVIII: Rumors

_Chapter XVIII_

_This Is How Rumors Get Started_

Sara put her Prius in park, taking one of the last available spots in the lot, and let the hybrid engine idle for a moment. Her stereo, professionally tweaked to her specifications, pumped out a steady stream of head-punching heavy metal, the sort that Greggo loved so dearly. The thrashing of guitars and crashing of drums and cymbals were simply too overwhelming and chaotic to ignore. She didn't particularly relish the sound that could loosely be classified as music, but it kept the nasty thoughts in her head drowned out. The sound also threatened to buckle the metal of nearby cars, but sacrifices had to be made. What was Wendy's Mustang compared to her mental health? Of course, Bobby's truck was on the other side and he would take it personally if his baby had even a scratch on it. It was probably not good for her mental or physical health to upset the lab's resident Gun Guy. She turned the key to 'Off' and pulled it out. The music abruptly stopped and she opened the door to the desert's oppressive heat. She planned to head straight to the lounge for coffee, water, soda, anything to put on her empty stomach and occupy her hands. These were the sort of times she missed smoking.

The lobby was busy when she walked in. That wasn't completely out of the ordinary, it was shift change after all. There was, however, an unusually large group around the reception desk. Eager for the distraction, she paused to see what had captured all the lab-rats' attention.

"That," Wendy narrowed her eyes, "is imported silk. We're talking mega-bucks for a pretty little bow."

Beside her, Archie scoffed, "Bow's nothing - look at the vase, that's not just any lead crystal. We're talking Waterford. I looked into buying something like this for my Mom last Mother's Day. They are insanely high."

Mandi, on Wendy's other side, pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and leaned forward, "And can we say Vera Wang? Someone is a _very_ lucky lady."

At the back of the group, David Hodges cleared his throat. The balding trace expert couldn't stand to be quiet when everyone else was talking. He put his hand up, "And the piece-de-resistance, ladies and gentleman, two dozen _Orchis Kneabenkaut."_

Mandi, Archie, Wendy and Judy stared at him and the somewhat neurotic tech ran a finger along the bloom of one of the flowers. "The very rare, very expensive, out of season Anatolian Orchid, imported from the Greece Isles to only three dealers on the West Coast."

The four techs turned to Judy, the Crime Lab's night receptionist and gate keeper. "C'mon," Mandi near whined "just tell us who they're for."

Judy, probably weighing her loyalty for the CSIs against her well-known love for gossip only shrugged, "None of you."

Wendy let out a snort of laughter, "Yeah, none of us are that lucky." She slid her eyes to the right and then the left, "I'm betting they're for Catherine."

Archie hummed, "I don't know, isn't Sara's birthday coming up?" He cut his eyes, in a none too discreet way, to Grissom's office. For her own part, Sara looked at the flowers through the gap in the group of gabbing rat pack.

Twenty four perfect pale pink and pure white blooms on delicate vivid green stems. They were expertly arranged in an outrageously expensive and undeniably lovely crystal vase and topped off with a creamy white silk bow wrapped around the foot of the vase. She didn't have to see the card; she had no doubt in her mind from whom the flowers had come and who they were for.

Alex could work incredibly fast when she was properly motivated.

Sara composed herself as much as she could manage and cleared her throat. "So nice of you to remember, Archie."

All of the techs and Judy instantly adopted innocent looks and tried to appear casual. Sara brushed past them, and looked directly at the flowers sitting on the high counter. "These are for me, Judy?" Though her voice went up at the end of the phrase, it was hardly a question.

Judy mutely nodded and handed her the card. It was heavy and her name was penned on the front in intricate calligraphy. She slipped the single piece of crème paper out of the envelope and read over it quickly. Without saying a word, or even changing her expression, Sara put the note back into the card, folded both of them in half and unceremoniously shoved them into the hip pocket of her dark-washed jeans.

The group silently salivated, waiting for some kind of signal from Sara. She knew they were watching her, waiting like gossip vultures for a juicy piece of information. Since office gossip ranked very, very low on her current list of things to worry about, she decided to give them the show they all so desperately wanted. She put her hands around the vase, above the bow, cupping where it flared out to hold the flowers. The crystal was cool against her fingers and the flowers smelled sweet and exotic. For a moment she closed her eyes, which was a mistake because memories flared in the dark behind her lids. She opened her eyes and set her mouth in a hard line. She turned and dropped the vase, flowers and all, into the trashcan with a heavy thunk. She walked away, pushing past a shocked Mandi, without looking back. "Leave them in the trash."

That was how the rumor that Sara Sidle had dumped Gil Grissom started at the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

Sara went straight to her locker, coffee long forgotten. She put in her combination, 3-15-61, with shaking fingers and jerked the lock off the latch to get into her things. She grabbed the jumbo sized bottle of chalky antacid tables and chewed up four at one time. She winced at the awful taste and tried to will them to work faster. Sara banged her head against the metal door beside her own locker and the sound of flesh on metal echoed dully through the small space. As if her life wasn't complicated enough, she now had Alex working damn hard to catch her attention. The grinding, scalding pain in her throat told Sara that the other woman was succeeding.

This had been how it had all started in the first place. Sweet, silly little gestures that had made it impossible for Sara to ignore her. Of course, back then, things hadn't been quite so complicated and Alex hadn't had so much money to throw around. She had always, Sara grudgingly had to admit, had style though.

_May 1995_

_San Fransisco, California_

_Sara pushed a strand of hair, that refused to conform to gel or mousse, out of her face and carefully stowed her department issue Glock in her locker. She had already signed off on her case evidence and was done for the day. Of course, her case was only an aggravated robbery. It was the usual CSI I bottom rung casework that she caught day in and day out. It was, however, more satisfying then morgue work. Keeping that and the fact that she had a date over the impending weekend in mind, she signed out for the day. She was halfway down the main brick and tile corridor of the Forensics Wing of the San Francisco Hall of Justice, more widely and pejoratively called Geek Central, when a booming baritone voice yelled out her name. She rolled her eyes and backpack slung over one shoulder, she leaned into the nearest office. _

_It didn't particularly look like a Forensic Scientist's Office, and it certainly didn't look like it belonged to the Head CSI and number two man on the wing. The office was a chaotic train-wreck of colors and odd-ends that didn't seem to fit into any one slot. It was a good environment for her boss. _

_Her direct supervisor switched his attention from the cartoon on the television and frowned, "Don't you ever answer you pages, Sara?"_

_Dressed way down in old tattered blue jeans and an even older black tee shirt, Riley Bates did not look like he belonged on the right side of the law. His blonde hair was shot through with silver, but it was still long enough to pull back into a pony tail that tickled his shoulder blades and his big brown eyes had laughter in them. Whether the laughter was spawned from yelling at her or whatever Saturday Morning Rerun he was watching, Sara didn't know. What she did know was behind his Woodstock Reject appearance was one of the keenest scientific minds she'd ever known and that was saying a lot. _

"_You've got a package up front, Kid. Did you order _another _crash dummy without my okay?" _

_Sara leaned against the doorway, "No, not this week at least." _

_Bates picked back up whatever file he'd been glancing over before he'd called her into his office. "Well go and get whatever it is before the desk Sergeant pees his pants, huh." _

_Sara chuckled, nodded and readjusted her bag full of clothes that desperately needed laundering before setting back out for the lobby._

_Her mouth dropped open and she felt her eyes widened when she hit the highly polished floor of the Hall's lobby. The only thing sitting on the Sergeant's desk was a bouquet of flowers. No, scratch that, it wasn't just any bouquet of flowers. The lilies were a gorgeous new hybrid that had been bred upstate and the vase was, if she wasn't mistaken, hand-blown artisan glass. The Desk Sergeant grinned at her and handed her the card with a smile. "Somebody's got a hot date tonight, huh." _

_She tugged the obviously read and replaced card out of the crumpled envelope and couldn't help but smile at the looped handwriting-_

_**Let me buy you dinner to show you how grateful I am for all you've done for me. No Arguments, Miss Super CSI.**_

That first time she'd forgotten about her calm evening full of laundry and had gone to dinner with a somewhat dopey grin on her face. She had also, Sara scowled at the memory, woke up in Alex's bed that next morning. The woman certainly had her ways. She was clever and mysterious. That card, like the one currently in her back pocket, had been unsigned. Alex's style had always been the only signature she'd needed, and for some reason, Sara had found that attractive at one time.

At one time, in the past tense. Sara closed her locker door with a resounding bang. This time she was older, wiser and was not going to play Alex's games. She wasn't going to go gooey over some stupid flowers, or a cocoon on a twig for that matter. She was Sara Sidle, CSI and adult, damn it! Sara walked out of the locker room with a set face, a purpose to her stride and her cell phone out and in her hand. She had work to do and a case to help solve.

* * *

Catherine stood in the doorway of the aquarium like layout room, and when Sara turned she immediately took in the hard as stone expression on the other woman's face. That look wasn't one she liked to see this early in the night.

"There you are, great, you can catch me up on the Marsh case." She had, and Sara congratulated herself on the accomplishment, left Catherine's system and layout alone. The seemingly random stacks of papers and photos didn't make much sense to Sara, but they would to Catherine. Sara knew from experience that their two arrangement systems worked very differently and, had she touched anything, she would have put it back in the wrong place out of simple habit. She knew better.

Catherine, voice frigid, handed her a sheaf of papers. "The blood work from Green and Finnigan came back, Wendy flagged it for _you_."

Sara's brow shot up without her conscious command to do so and it lowered in relief when she read over the papers. It was all negative. Though she would go through the standard battery and schedule of tests just to be safe, it was relief to know that she was in the clear. It was one less very deadly thing to worry about.

Her relief and the momentary calm resulting from it was shattered by Catherine. "You didn't tell me you had an accident down in the morgue."

Sara recognized the other woman's tone. Her problems were just piling up today. On top of everything else, Catherine was gearing up for a fight. Sara did some quick mental calculation. It was time for one of their blow-the-roof-off blowouts, give or take a phase of the moon. Now she wished she had gone through and rearranged the photos and evidence reports herself instead of respecting Catherine's system. If they were going to fight and hiss at eachother, she might as well start sooner then later. Then again, that would have been waving the scarlet red flag in front of the raging bull and Sara had gone and forgotten her matador's hat and sword at home.

She sighed and prepared for whatever was about to fly her way. "Doc Robbins said he'd take care of it. We hadn't identified the device yet and my finger slipped. I didn't need stitches, but we were worried about contamination so we had all the blood tested along with mine. Wendy rushed it for me." It wasn't the first time _someone_ had used the lab facilities under the table, off the books and for their own personal reasons. Sara wisley kept that particular thought to herself.

Catherine nodded stiffly and Sara knew that while the other woman was somewhat satisfied with her explanation, she still had something to say. In essence Sara had won the battle but was probably about to lose the war. "Would you like to explain what the _hell _happened this afternoon?"

She'd known that this was coming and Sara had spent all day thinking about her answer. "Not particularly."

She watched Catherine's scowl deepen and felt a sharp pain claw up her throat. She ignored both phenomenon. "I am you _supervisor_, Sara. _You owe_ me an explanation."

Sara's head snapped up out of pure defiance, "It was _personal_, Catherine, drop it. _You_ owe _me_ that."

It might have degraded into a brawl, all they needed was a vat of Jello, but as fate would have it, Greg poked his head into the room. For a moment Sara and Catherine didn't respond to the younger CSI. They didn't even acknowledge his presence. They were caught in each other's glare. After a very awkward moment, Greg caught their attention by clearing his throat. "Hey, we have another scene, Sofia and Brass are calling us in specifically and you know what that means." Catherine hissed a curse through her teeth and Sara dragged her hand down her face.

There had been another murder.


	20. Chapter XIX: The Day After

_Chapter XIX_

_The Morning After_

Bryce Luken shoved three twenties at the cabbie and started to stumble away before he got the change. The desert sun's brightness hurt his eyes, his mouth felt like an overflowing ashtray that had been soaked in cheap beer and there was a very bad high school marching band tuning their instruments to some god-awful off-key notes in his head. All in all, he wanted to fall face down on his too-firm motel bed and sleep for the next six months. They had to be at the lecture-brunch in an hour. As if he could think about claims adjustment with the mother of all hangovers. Why they had conventions in Vegas, he had no idea, because he wasn't going to be taking anything but fuzzy memories back from this one. Good memories, Bryce had to admit, but they were fuzzy nonetheless. He was never, no matter how smoking hot the girl was, going to mix beer and tequila shooters again. Not to mention he would never touch any drink that was bright purple and called 'Haze' even if it was the house special. He was so miserable he didn't even stop to chat up the two bottle blondes in very small bikinis catching morning rays by the pool.

He dug in his pockets, looking for the room key and hoped to God he hadn't dropped it on What's-Her-Name's floor. Luckily he hadn't but since the door to his room was ajar, he didn't need it anyway. He figured Preston's evening entertainment had probably left, but just in case, he clapped one hand over his eyes as he approached the door.

"PRESSIE!" He nudged the door open with his foot. "Press, you pansy ass, cover up I'm coming in!" At this point he really hoped Preston's pickup had left because there was nothing more awkward than naked, hung over introductions and he'd already done that this morning as it was. No one answered so he stepped in and uncovered his eyes. "Preston?" It took longer than usual for his bleary and bloodshot eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the room. "Move it, Abernathy, we have to be back at the Monaco in, like, an hour."

Bryce stepped over, intent on kicking the bed, and his eyes finally focused. At first his brain didn't understand what it was seeing. At first he thought that maybe he was still completely and hideously drunk and maybe even high. Then the sickening truth settled in on Bryce.

"OH GOD! OH JESUS!"

He turned away and stumbled backwards on his own feet until his back hit the door. He pivoted clumsily, tried to run and made the mistake of looking over his shoulder. It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut and everything that he hadn't already thrown up came barreling back up his throat. The rank mixture of beer and bile made a loud liquid splash on the clean cement walkway. Bryce dragged his wrist across his mouth, and shaken to the core, he straightened up again.

"Christ, Jesus Christ." His voice was hoarse and he started to yell. "HELP! FUCKING HELP! OH GOD, Someone call 9-1-1!"

The tang of blood, maybe leaking out of the wide open door and into the breeze or from his fresh memory, hit him again and he fell against the pool's stylized wrought iron fence and he vomited again. His sides spasmed painfully and his throat burned from the bile that had come forth yet again. The bikini-clad girls jumped away, disgusted, but one, nevertheless, picked up her cell phone to make the emergency phone call. Bryce was bent double over the rail. He had tears, half from vomiting, and half from horror, dripping down his ashen pale face.

"Oh God, Press."

Preston's blood. Jesus, it was everywhere. Disgusted, he retched again only to dry heave and gag painfully. "I'm sorry, Preston. I'm so so sorry."

Bryce's words dissolved into a stupefied and shocked silence as he slid down the fence to his knees and then sat on the concrete with his knees drawn up to his chest.

* * *

Catherine let the hot water flow over her, easing the kinks and aches that came from working on her hands and knees, bent over double, squatted down and every other uncomfortable position she got herself into doing her job for the last ten hours. It hadn't been a particularly nasty scene, she wasn't using lemons to kill the stench of death. Catherine was letting the water wash away the hurt in her heart.

It hadn't been another device killing. It had just been a baby. A girl no older than Lindsey, dead in a pool of her own blood. She understood why Brass had called them in on the suspicion. The girl had bled between her legs. It had been a motel-birth gone horribly wrong. It was happening more and more. Teenage girls afraid to tell their parents that they were pregnant and would hide the pregnancies as long as possible. Some were incredibly adept at that. Then they would run away and have the baby on the streets, or if they were lucky, a pay-by-the hour motel. Catherine was no doctor, and could not say what had gone wrong. She was a CSI and she had a dead girl with her dead infant son, and someone who had fled the scene.

The showers steam rose around her while the water beat down on her head and shoulders, slicking her red-blonde hair down to her scalp. She and Greg had worked the case while Sara had run evidence back to the lab and split her time between it and the Device Cases. There was very little to report on either of the cases. Her shift was winding down and after she finished her shower, she was leaving. She desperately needed to see Lindsey. Just to make sure that her daughter was healthy and whole and not pregnant. She wanted to see Lindsey graduate High School, then College and get married and then one day, one day, way far into the future, have children. Lindsey was too damn young to be a mother and Catherine was way too damn young to be a grandmother. She braced her hands against the wall, stared blankly down at the tile floor and watched the soap and water swirled around the drain.

Who had been there for that teenager? The young woman who'd had long corn silk blonde hair and freckles? Had the boy who'd fathered her son been there? Had he taken responsibility? Had the two of them come to Vegas to start their young lives all over again? Did her mother know? God, she didn't envy Brass, who would have to tell some woman that her child and grandchild were dead. Dead and left alone in some sleaze ball room without dignity, without love. She - they hadn't identified her yet - had been well taken care of. Her hair had been cut and styled and she had a manicure. For a woman giving birth, she hadn't been showing much. Judging from the ACE bandages Catherine had found in the room, the girl had been starving herself and wrapping her stomach to keep herself slender. A few stray tears mixed with the shower water before Catherine turned off the tap and grabbed her towel.

Because she, like every other woman who was employed by the Las Vegas Police Department, used a co-ed locker room, Catherine dressed in the women's shower and restroom. Panties and matching bra, socks, jeans, all from her locker, and an LVPD tee-shirt. She was about to pull the gray and navy blue shirt over her head when she saw the gigantic stain of unknown origins on the front of it. It looked like it was grease or oil of some kind, smelled as if it belonged in a trash can and there was no way she was putting it on. Even if she was just driving Lindsey to school, she was not wearing that. Clad in everything but a shirt, Catherine headed back towards the locker room and hoped that Greg wasn't lurking around. The last thing he needed was a free show. Ruined shirt in her hands, she turned the corner and was disappointed to see that the locker room was not empty.

Sara, with her locker open, was talking to someone that Catherine couldn't see.

"It's just been a long day. First there was UNLV then when I came in to the lab, Queen Bee Catherine jumped me about cutting my finger."

The other voice, which Catherine quickly and easily identified as Sofia, piped up quickly. "Did you get those test results back?"

Sara, back still turned to Catherine, sighed. "Yeah, Wendy rushed it for me, it all came back negative."

Sofia, whose view of Catherine was blocked by Sara, spoke again. "You know you need to get tested again."

Sara mumbled an affirmative reply and for a moment there was silence. Though Catherine couldn't see Sara's face and couldn't really see Sofia at all, she had a feeling that they were looking at each other, speaking silently.

Sofia broke the silence. "All right, you are coming out with me. We can drink good beer, bitch about women and you can buy me something slightly higher class than a burrito."

Sara laughed, the sound was forced and a little bit brittle. "Are you going to grill me about what happened today?"

Hell yes, Catherine would have, and intended to, but not over breakfast. Sofia only chuckled, "If you want to vent, feel free to vent. C'mon, Sara, we've both put in Hellish nights and I, for one, could use a morning off."ﾝ

Sara shrugged, "Well I-"

Catherine's cellphone, hooked to her clean pants, chose that time to ring. All three women turned to the sound, which was quickly echoed by two nearly identical electronic beeps.

Sara was quickest on the draw. She flipped open her phone, dialed and was on the line with dispatch before Catherine had even moved a finger.

Sofia only blinked. "Care to cover up there, Catherine?"

Catherine opened her mouth to say something, but was beaten to the punch by the plastic clack of Sara closing her phone. How do you feel about a rain check, Sofia. That was Brass, another body and this one definitely matches the M.O." Sara turned her head, but not around far enough to see Catherine getting a clean shirt from her nearby locker, "Single d.b. Found in a motel room, lots of blood on the walls and a significant amount between his legs." She turned back to Sofia, "This is turning serial."

Sofia blew out a puff of exasperated breath, nodded and turned, "We'll catch lunch after we clear the scene, you're driving."

Catherine watched the two women walk out and wondered as she strapped her holster back on, exactly what was going on between Sara Sidle and Sofia Curtis. No matter what it was, she decided after a moment, it was going to piss her off.


	21. Chapter XX: On Scene

Author's Note: I hope everyone is enjoying their holidays. I certainly did, apart from tending to manic shoppers who waited till 30 minuites before the store closed on Christmas Eve to do all their shopping, of course. Now between figuring out my new ipod and arguing with itunes, I decided on a last minuite gift for everyone. It's an update, just like you wanted! See, Santa did get your letter.

_Chapter XX_

_On Scene_

Fluorescent yellow crime scene tape stretched across the inner courtyard of the Lady Luck Luxury Motel. Sara, heavy chrome-toned field kit in hand, lowered her dark glasses a fraction to study the scene in the late morning sun. There was a crowd pushing against the taped-off perimeter. They were being held in check by a couple of uniformed officers that looked like they had left the academy just the day before. There were innocent bystanders, people who had been forced to leave their rooms and beds before they were ready. The press had caught wind of the scene - the vultures listened to their police scanners as religiously as she did - and there were cameras, microphones and reporters in the crowd. There were also looky-loos - the people who couldn't resist the macabre pull of a fresh crime scene. Sara, out of habit, put down her kit and took a small digital camera out of the case that had been dangling from her wrist. No one was paying her much attention; everyone was focused on Sofia who had just made her way under the tape. Sara looked from the space beyond the tape back to the crowd. Sometimes the crime didn't stop at the tape. With that in mind, Sara shrugged out of her Department issue black vest and put her laminated Crime Lab ID in her pocket. She took pictures, discreetly and without a flash, of the crowd. You never knew who the looky-loos really were. She moved around, kit and vest left with one of the uniforms, to get a shot of all the faces.

She knew that Super Dave and Sofia were already inside, but this was the third Device Killing scene and she wanted pictures. She saw Catherine, who had driven in separately, walk through one of her shots and duck under the tape, and knew that she needed to hurry before someone realized that she wasn't just another bystander.

A few minutes later, camera and it's memory card secure in her kit, Sara put her vest and ID back on and went under the tape. The u-shaped building around her was stucco white and the pool in the center of the courtyard was bright blue under the sun and smelled faintly of chlorine. She sidestepped the pool of vomit on the cement and went to the wide open door that was her primary scene. A uniform stood at the door, but looked away from it, his jaw rigidly set. She could smell death coming from the room and knew, even before she stepped foot inside it, that this murder was going to be somehow worse than the others. She stopped and mechanically put paper covers over her boots and latex gloves over her hands, and looked over the room's threshold as she did. She hated being right.

The wall behind one of the two full-sized beds was a chaotic mess of blood spatter, cast off and something that she couldn't immediately identify. The bed itself, complete with corpse, was awash in blood, most of it pooled between the man's legs.

Dave, who was bent over the body, looked up briefly, "One slightly used dead body. I have no idea why they keep leaving these things laying around."

He pulled the long thermometer out of the dead man's abdomen and scrawled down his readings, "He's only been dead nine hours, that's practically fresh, you know?"

Sara took her sunglasses off and put them into the soft protective case before sliding them into her back pocket, "You're rambling, Super Dave."

The Coroner blushed, "Oh sorry, it's just-"

She smiled and patted him on the back as she joined him. So where is everybody?"

Dave made another note in his concise, cramped handwriting. "They're both out with the witness, the roommate who found the body. Catherine told me to tell you to start processing the vic when you got in."

Sara nodded, "Do we have a name?"

Dave stood up and backed away so she could process the body. He looked down at his notes once more, "Preston Abernathy from Savannah, Georgia. He's in town for an insurance convention of some kind."

Sara looked around, the beam of her flashlight made a slow circle around the room, highlighting several things. "Wow. I will not be looking at _my_ insurance guy the same way again." She got her camera, the Nikon she used for official crime scene photos and did her usual pre-shot check to ensure the camera was in good working order. With David out of the way, she began to capture the gory mess that had been Preston Abernathy's body. Her first shot was from the right side and captured the profile view of his body. From there she got shots from the other side, from an angle, and then she started doing sections: the bloody mess between his legs, the smashed remains of his face and skull, the blood spattered wall. Though blood spatter was not her specialty, she could still read the murderous tale scrawled there. The first hit had most likely not been bloody, but the next had caused the medium velocity spatter and the left to right streak of cast off. The hits had been violent, viscous and Sara looked down at the body that David needed to remove. Preston Abernathy hadn't deserved this.

She stepped back away, "Take him away, Dave, special processing on him, okay."

She didn't watch David and his assistant put the Abernathy in the heavy black body bag, zip it up and haul it away. She was much too busy staring at the carpet. More specifically, she was staring at the white flecks on the dark blue carpet.

She was on one knee bent over almost double with tweezers in her hand when Catherine and Sofia came back into the room. "id David take the body already?"

Sara mumbled off a yes, then pursed her lips as she very carefully picked up the white wax. The grooves in the shed, not spilled wax, were the disjointed and torn apart whirls and swirls of a fingerprint. The fingerprint of their killer. If they could reconstruct the print, lift it and match it to the print they'd found at the Marsh crime scene, they would have concrete, irrefutable evidence to tie the two murders together. When she'd collected the last piece of the fragile wax, she looked up.

"She's accelerating." It was the first time she had officially voiced her opinion that they were dealing with both a she and a serial. She stood and looked to the other two investigators. "Multiple blunt force traumas, and again, heavy damage to the penis."

Catherine nodded, cool as a cucumber, "n my initial walk through I found blood in the bathtub. Who wants to bet she wiped her prints again?"

It took conscious thought for all parties to refer to the killer with female pronouns. Only three percent of multiple murderers were women. Sara wished she could say that she had never seen such brutality spring from another woman, but that, of course, would have been a blatant and boldfaced lie. Women were often more bloodthirsty then men, and this case laid that out in spades. " found a possible print. We'll have to see what Mandi can do with it."

Sara looked over at Sofia, "Witness tell you anything?"

She watched the blonde detective blow out a sigh and run her fingers through her hair, pushing the lose locks back, "Yeah, I sent him to the station, he's going to sit with a sketch artist. Apparently, they met the girls at Jackpot, but he's known our vic for several years. They work together. Vic was the family man, witness was the bad boy. They both went home, so to speak, with someone, but the one with a wife and son ends up dead. Mr. Luken is shaken up, to say the least."

Sara turned around, newly bundled evidence in hand, "Two girls?"

Sofia chuckled, "Ah yes, our witness, Bryce, met a woman too, he thinks her name might have been Amy, or quite possibly Alli, it was definitely an A name, end quote."

Catherine scoffed, "Sounds like a real nice guy." She was staring at the blood spatter on the wall. "Medium velocity spatter with cast off. Rough estimate gives it at least four hits, possibly five, but no more than six from what the pattern tells me. You'll need to bag the sheets and comforter."

While the first part of her monologue had been pointed at no one in particular, the last sentence was a none too gracious command to Sara. Sara had already known this of course, she had worked a _few _crime scenes in her decade or so of experience.

Sofia stood for a moment more, taking in the dark ambience of the blood-strewn room motel room, then turned to leave. One foot out the door, she paused. "There's something missing."

Sara looked around, "I don't see it."

Catherine too looked, "Everything's here, down to the minibar."

Sofia shook her head again and walked between the edge of the bed that was their main scene and the standard hotel room air conditioning unit. She looked down over the side table. "Two candlesticks, really ugly candlesticks, three tables. An unlit candle on the one side, burnt down one in the middle, and a drop or two of wax on this table." She bent down, took a latex glove out of her pocket and used it to pick up an only partially melted white candle, "And a candle."

Catherine took a step closer to the wall, "And a spray of white wax under the blood."

Following the other two women's lead, Sara moved by Catherine and picked up one of the heavy wood and faux-marble candleholders. "This will make a good tool-mark comparison, but it isn't the murder weapon. Our killer took that with her."


	22. Chapter XXI: Meat and Potatoes

_Chapter XXI_

_The Meat and Potatoes of Investigation_

"Useless piece of junk." Sofia whacked the side of her computer monitor hard enough to cause the sunglasses she had propped on top to clatter to the desk. Sofia Curtis was no technophobe; in fact she loved her computer and was a certified Internet junkie. She just didn't like _this_ computer. More accurately she didn't like the fact that it took half a lifetime to connect to VICAP. The city and county could repave the Strip every other day and bend over backwards to keep the Casino Tyrants happy but putting in newer servers that would allow the several thousand police officers to do their job was just out of the question this fiscal year. That was just _fine_. Let the whole God-forsaken city self-destruct while the LVPD computers limped along like blind lame turtles. It wasn't like they were asking for much, not even a full Casino worthy system. A few bladed server terminals with black box memory backup, and a self-sustained liquid cooling system and a fucking update from Windows-fucking-95 would suffice. She didn't want to have to go down to the Crime Lab every time she needed to check something by the national databases. Was that really so much to ask?

The familiar government seal and welcome screen _finally _popped up, and Sofia blew out a frustrated breath. She logged into the federal system with the LVPD ID and password that she knew by heart. Once that processed, she started to type in the specifics of the crime. The killings couldn't be considered serial, as of yet, it would take a third similar murder to qualify as such. There hadn't been a third murder in Vegas, but Sofia had a gut feeling that Vegas wasn't the first or only place to see this kind of carnage. It may or may not have started here, Sofia scowled, but it sure as hell was going to end here. She did not want to make another call like she had that morning. She rubbed her hands over her face and hair, while VICAP whirred and worked its magic. The cross-continental call that morning, from Nevada to Georgia, had been made from her department issue cell phone; it had been cheaper that way. She wished it had been anyone but her that had made it.

_She had been sitting on the hood of her car in the parking lot, staring up at the dusky sky when she dialed the phone number that Bryce Luken had given her. Her watch had read six o'clock and, for a minute, she hadn't known if it was AM or PM. The case was wearing on her in the worst sort of way. She listened to the drone of the phone ringing in her ear and sighed. Brass was letting her run with the case, which made her lead, which meant that calling Preston Abernathy's wife her job. When a warm hand descended on her shoulder, she almost reached for her sidearm. She blinked open her eyes to see Sara there, kit full of evidence from the hotel room with her. _

_The brunette held her thumb and pinky up to her ear and mouthed 'Georgia?' _

_When Sofia nodded, Sara put her kit down on the ground and boosted herself up onto the unmarked Sedan's hood. Though Sara didn't say anything, Sofia was thankful for her presence, especially when the now widowed Mrs. Abernathy answered._

"_Preston, is that you? Are you calling from the Hotel? Here, Jonah, talk to Daddy.__"__ When a small voice started to babble into the phone, Sofia felt her throat start to close up. The few moments of baby talk, a little boy talking to whom he thought was his father, seemed to last for hours. When the woman, Kimberly Abernathy, came back on the line, Sofia took a deep breath and, without thought of propriety or personal lines, she held out her hand, palm up, and felt the reassuring warmth of Sara's hand cover hers._

"_Kimberly Abernathy? This is Detective Sofia Curtis, I'm with the Las Vegas Police Department.__"_

_There was a beat of shocked silence, and then the woman spoke again. Kim Abernathy's voice was slow and had almost a lyrical quality to it. Her words were rounded off and her vowels were soft, it was a coastal Georgia accent if Sofia had ever heard one. __"__What's happened?__"_

_Sara squeezed her hand, and Sofia silently sighed. __"__There is no easy way to say this, Ms. Abernathy. Your husband was found this morning, murdered. I am so sorry for your loss.__"_

_Silence, but only for a moment, ruled the line. There was never a way to tell exactly how someone would react to hearing their loved one was gone. No matter what the steps of grieving said. _

"_You're sure it's him?__"_

_Sofia's throat was hot and a headache was forming behind her eyes. __"__Yes, I'm sorry.__"_

_The rest of the conversation was a blur in her memory. She had made so many notifications, been the bearer of bad news countless times. It never got any easier. She had closed the phone about thirty minutes later and she and Sara had simply sat there. Sofia held the phone against her closed mouth, the cool plastic against her skin. _

"_We're going to find this guy-girl, right?" _

_Beside her Sara started to stand up. "Yes, we are. Now I have to get back to the lab, you gonna be okay?" _

_Sofia hooked her cell back on her belt and put her feet on the asphalt. "I will be when we close this case."_

The problem with this case, though, was the fact that if their perp had only just now started killing, there wouldn't be a VICAP entry. Men rarely reported rape. Of course, the injuries to the penis might make them more likely to report. It wouldn't have been put into VICAP though. She knew though, in her head and in her gut that this particular rabbit hole went much deeper than anyone had thought it could. She was going to find out exactly how far. She leaned back in her threadbare chair and stretched her legs under the desk that had probably been in the bullpen since before she was born. It was dinged, scratched and dented and had seen more perps and murders than any single cop on the force. That was something of a comfort. The continuality of justice, she liked it. The revolving shield icon and the pointer turned hourglass indicated that the system was still processing her request. She linked her hands behind her head, stared at the ceiling and willed her phone not to ring.

"Hey Curtis," Son of a bitch.

She sat up, the chair squeaked in protest of her quick movement. O'Riley stood, square face set in his usual grumpy scowl, stood in the bullpen's main aisle. "Some guy's here to see you. Said he has information on the case."

Riley made a gruesome, and somewhat inaccurate chopping motion with his hand. He had a pained expression on his face, O'Riley wanted rid of the man, and fast. Since she was in no mood to hear any more comments about 'tang with teeth or any of the other hundreds of off color and down right disturbing compliments that the boys had been making, she hit the button on her monitor to turn it off. She checked her appearance in the dark screen quickly. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and there were dark circles under her eyes, "The city's tax dollars at work, Ladies and Gents." She blew out another quick sigh, told herself not to talk to herself in front of the witness and twisted her neck to pop it. After three sharp cracks, she sighed "Send him on in."

She was a trained observer. Her mother had, out of her own hubris, started training her while she was a child. Her natural talent had been honed by her mother, then at the academy and had been fine-tuned as a CSI, and now as a detective. A quick once over of her new informant told her a number of things, but the thing that jumped out at her immediately was his walk.

He didn't walk so much as waddle; his legs spread apart, thighs not touching. She stood, mostly to take control of the situation. There would be no question about the balance of power here. This was her house and he was just visiting.

"Thank you for coming in, have a seat, Mister-"

He winced as he eased himself into the straight-backed hard metal chair by her desk, and hissed when he sat all the way down. "Bordwine, Markus Bordwine."

He was, Sofia quickly decided, the cocky type. His hair was gelled just right, his suit was silk, his hands were manicured and he was wearing a watch that cost more than her monthly salary. He probably thought of himself as a lady's man, America's answer to James Bond. She bet he was a lawyer, corporate and high paid. He was, though, nervous, very nervous. Whatever it was he had to say, it made him uncomfortable. He was sweating in the relatively cool seventy-degree room and looking around almost frantically, like a cat at a dog show. She needed to get whatever it was out of him and fast before he ran.

"You have some information for us, Mister Bordwine?"

"Yeah, uh" Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and face, "Can we talk about this somewhere, uh, private?"

Sofia rolled her eyes, her threadbare patience wearing even thinner, "Mr. Bordwine, we are in the middle of a several murder investigations and I am very busy."

He mopped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, "With the woman who _hurts_ men, right?"

She was in no mood for forty questions. "Kills them actually, if you haven't heard."

Bordwine licked his lips compulsively. "Heard? Not heard, Lady, I _know_."

Sofia kept her face blank, "I assure you that as long as you practice basic safety you'll be fine."

He had one hand held on his lap, protecting his crotch; the other was running through his perfectly styled hair over and over. "You _don't_ _get it_. I've been there and done that."

She tilted her head to the side, was it possible? "Really?"

He leaned forward, as though he wanted to whisper so as not to be heard, "She had _razors inside of her_."

Sofia sat up straighter and looked over her shoulder. Brass's office was empty. This had moved beyond a simple question and answer session. It would have been one thing to say the woman used razors. They had withheld the device, and what it entailed from the press, though. She opened her top desk drawer and pulled out a digital voice recorder, her notebook and a Polaroid instant camera,

"Let's go inside the Captain's Office."

He waddled a step in front of her on the short walk and Sofia watched every obviously painful step.

This was the biggest break they'd had yet.

* * *

When she got the first sketch, based on the description of the killer they'd taken from Bryce Luken, Catherine had been ready to hand it off to Archie immediately. He could run it through the lab's facial recognition software and work his techno magic with it. When her fax whirred off the second sketch, this one from Detective Curtis's walk-in victim, Markus Bordwine she paused. 

She'd given the Polaroids Sofia had taken of Bordwine's damaged penis to Robbins for wound-comparison. Although, Bordwine's wounds had been cared for and were partially healed, the ME had said, without a doubt, that the device had caused them. Apparently, Bordwine had a frat buddy turned Oncologist take care of his mangled penis for him.

Since both descriptions came from somewhat unreliable, and drunk, sources, she couldn't put too much faith in them. As it was, the sketches weren't a match anyway. Separately, the sketches were unremarkable, at best. She put them side-by-side and scowled down at the two faces. Luken's sketch was of a younger woman with dark hair and dark eyes. While Bordwine's sketch was of an older light haired woman with light hair and light eyes. There was also, in Bordwine's statement, no mention of date rape drugs. That struck Catherine as odd, even for this twisted case.

The faces, laying side by side, stared up at her from the layout table. The two women, real or fantasy, were pretty enough, beautiful even. Neither struck her as particularly murderous. Of course, all women were more than meets the eye, still waters and all of that. One, or maybe even both, of these women, or any woman who could put that hideous razor-lined killer tampon inside her scared the bejeezus out of Catherine. The idea of two,strike that,of three or more women with these _devices _made her blood run icy cold.

Two pictures, she looked at them. Outside of the hair color and some of the finer details, details that could be changed with makeups, dyes and lighting, the women did look similar. Both had high cheekbones, small, straight noses and rounded chins. It wasn't much, but add in alcohol and lust, mistakes could be made. Two slightly different stories, she had learned to weed through and pick and choose between different, sometimes completely contradictory stories to find the truth before. The truth, she had found, was often found somewhere in the middle.

It was a short trip to the AV Lab. While the high tech haven was usually Archie's domain, Catherine felt confident enough in her skills to do run one simple program. They primarily used the facial recognition program for, well, recognition. The program also had forensic anthropology applications that could, with the right person at the controls, work wonders. It could age and or alter a sketch's appearance to account for age surgery and disguises. If she wanted something like that, it would have taken hours. All she wanted to do was an easy fifteen-minute a pop mix and match six pack set. She would take the two sketches and use the computer to combine the features in random ways. They did this when a suspect was on the run, to keep the public aware of how the fugitive might look. It was also used in a more positive way, to age kidnapped and missing children's pictures.

She cleared the buffer, scanned in the sketches and set the two programs to working. One screen ran the two faces by the LVPD and National mug-shot database, trying to get a possible match. The other rapidly combining the features for her six packs photos. She would have Curtis run the six packs by the two witnesses separately, see if they could get a matching pick to work with.

The laser printer spit out a few pages and she let them sit in the tray for a minute, giving the paper a minute to cool and the ink time to dry. When she did pick them up, she flipped through the pages at the faces, only mildly interested. Each face was different, yet because each face had been drawn from the same pool of features, they were vaguely the same. Her eyes paused on the middle picture on the second row on the third print out.

It wasn't an exact match, but the resemblance was uncanny enough to give Catherine pause. The wheels and gears started to turn and she turned to yet another computer and logged in. This wasn't a complicated action, her plans were childishly simple.

She didn't believe in coincidences and this particular set of circumstances had her instincts twitching.

She entered five words in the Google search bar and hit enter. It only took seconds for thousands of hits to come back. Her instincts hadn't failed her. Catherine tightened her jaw, and spoke through gritted teeth, "Sidle."

She went out of the AV lab in a rush and because she hadn't even glanced before rushing into the corridor, she almost plowed into Nick. The mellow Texan, just returned from his short trip back home, steadied himself and offered her an affable smile. "Where's the fire, Cath?"

She didn't answer, apologize or even pause all that long. She, however, did ask one question. "Where is Sara?"

Nick simply stood for a moment, "Um, Griss chased her home a while ago, she's maxed out on overtime, again."

The last part of the sentence was said to an empty hallway because Catherine was already around the corner and gone. Not for the first time, Nick was incredibly glad that he was on Catherine's good side most of the time. He would hate to be Sara right about now.


	23. Chapter XXII: The Opposite of Avoidance

_Chapter XXII_

_The Opposite of Avoidance_

Grissom had told her with no 'if's, 'and's, or 'but's about it to go home. She had maxed out on overtime, again, and even though they were technically in the middle of a crime wave and a high profile case, the budget simply didn't have enough room left to pay for her additional overtime. Forget the fact that she was working a white hot case, she needed to go home and rest. She would have time to rest when she was dead: Grissom hadn't been very impressed with that particular remark.

If not for the fact that Grissom was her boss, she would have given him a huge chunk of her mind right then and there. It wasn't his business anymore how much time she spent at home, how many hours of sleep she got during the day. Her emotional state was none of his damn concern unless it caused a problem at work. _He_ had dumped _her_ and some days he forgot that. She didn't owe him explanations, or explications or anything more than her case reports. She showed up, did her job and went home when the case was closed. That's how it was supposed to work at least. If he was that worried about the fucking budget, she could have worked off the clock. It wouldn't have been the first time.

She chewed and swallowed three antacids, popped an over the counter pill for acid reflux, and chased them with two extra strength Tylenol. She checked her gun -- she could still smell the oil from it's last cleaning -- and after thinking about it for a minute, put the Glock in its holster and put both in her locker beside her bullet-proof vest. She didn't want to carry the gun anymore. She'd spent the first three months after her kidnapping with her gun with her at all times. She had even taken it to the bathroom with her. One day, it had been a Saturday, a few of the teenagers in her building had been goofing around and one of them, a young girl, had started screaming when one of the boys sprayed her with a water gun. Looking back on the whole thing, it was funny. At the time, Sara had jumped, pulled her gun and had come close to pulling the trigger. Riley had come close to getting a nine millimetre through his gut. That had been the day she'd stopped bringing her gun home with her. That had been the day she told herself that she wouldn't be afraid anymore. She had her hits and misses, mostly misses, but she hadn't reacted so violently since.

All of her efforts hadn't stopped the nightmares or the sudden waves of nausea she got whenever she processed trunks or desert body dumps, but it had been progress. She wasn't a shut in, and she wasn't giving in. No matter what happened, she wasn't going to run away. She had run before to no avail. You can't outrun your demons, you have to face them. She'd learned that the hard way. No matter how many miles you put between yourself and the memories, they always came back. She was taking it day-by-day, shift by shift. The PEAP counselor had cleared her, her doctor had signed off on her physical health and she was steady enough to trust herself alone again. Even if she didn't, she wasn't alone at all. Nick, Greg, Warrick, Jim, Wendy, Archie and now Sofia, they were there to support her and she knew that. She only had to pick up the phone and someone would be with her in a heartbeat. She might not be Gil's girl anymore, but she was by no means alone.

As she walked down the hall towards the exit, she mentally ticked off her usual pre-clockout check list. She had checked for messages, closed her files and put them back where they belonged, logged out of the Lab's mainframe, signed off on the evidence and stored it back in the locker it assigned, and called Sofia to make sure neither of them had missed any updates or information. She had also avoided Catherine, apologized to Greg for being a bitch, seen about a dozen pictures of Nick's new niece, had her cold as snow post-relationship stare down with Grissom and now she was free and clear to clock out for the day.

When she hit the door, she didn't even bother to pull her sunglasses down over her eyes, the sky was only just starting to lighten up. The warm pinks, toasty oranges and cool baby blues were streaked across a deep midnight blue that was reluctantly surrendering to a pale pearl gray sky. She hadn't even fished her keys out of her pocket, her mind still lingering inside with the case, when a car horn honked a few feet to her left. She looked up, expecting to see one of her coworkers.

"Damn it."

A sleek, stretched, onyx black limousine complete with mirrored windows and a uniformed driver, coasted to a stop in front of her. Sara crossed her arms and glared at her own reflection in the back passenger door, _the_ door. She waited for the window to slide down and when the tinted glass smoothly retracted to reveal a familiar face, she didn't even pretend to be surprised.

"You know there are stalking laws in Nevada, and I do carry a gun." Her voice was hard and almost brusque.

The cool voice that came from the interior of the car sounded more amused than concerned. "You don't have your gun now, Sahara."

No, but she almost wished she did. She rubbed two fingers against her right temple, "What do you want now, Alex?" Sara put one hand on the already uncomfortably hot metal hood of the limo so she could see inside of it. "I thought I made the message clear: Leave. Me. Alone. _Especially_ at work."

Alex grinned, showing off her perfect teeth and her almost dimples. "Well you would have been really _pissed_ if I had shown up wherever it is you live."

Sara let a sound that was close to a disgruntled growl escape. "That doesn't mean you can come _here,_ you know that."

Alex shrugged and ran her fingers along the bottom of the open window. "Fine, not here, then get in the car. We'll have breakfast and talk."

Sara straightened up, and felt her spine stiffen, "I don't really have anything else to say."

For a moment, the other woman said nothing, a sign that Sara had won the argument.

Then the blonde shifted so she was facing Sara. "You left without saying goodbye. No call, no note, you didn't give me a chance to explain. You just up and left everything behind. You made a clean break, left everything that had ever touched me behind. Hell, Sara, you even left Pavlov. I didn't know what the hell happened. I went to the Hall and Riley had to be the one to tell me that you'd left. He wouldn't even tell me where you'd gone." Pavlov had been their dog and Riley was the only one she'd told where she was going. "You may not have anything to say, but I've got seven year's worth of things to say."

Sara knew Alex. Knew her moods, her facial expressions, her quirks, her double talk, her persistence, and especially her temper. She was serious and Sara was beginning to think it would be better just to go for a ride with her. "And," Alex near hissed, "we can do it here or somewhere where your precious coworkers won't get to see and hear everything."

That, Sara inwardly sighed, settled that. She opened the door, "Scoot over." The window rolled up as Sara slid onto the leather seat of the opulent limo. It was arguable her most grandiose exit from the crime lab to date, and that counted the times she'd ridden in the Sheriff Department's helicopter.

Sara looked over at her ex, the so named lioness of the runway and couldn't help but smile. For some, drinking champagne before eight in the morning would be at least be considered unhealthy. For Alex, it seemed, oddly appropriate. Tired, weary even, from her work, Sara leaned her head back, "Pour me a glass, would you? It's been one _hell_ of a week."

She could imagine Alex's smile without looking at the other woman. It was just like old times. Times, Sara thought, she was sure she'd never know again. Times she wasn't sure she wanted again. It would be, she knew, far too easy to fall under Alex's spell again. That had been why she had thrown away the flowers. She had decided to avoid the other woman and her advances entirely. Sara sipped her champagne. So far, considering that she had already had a round with Catherine, Gil and now Alex, she was failing splendidly at the whole avoidance plan.


	24. Chapter XXIII: Breakfast and Flashbacks

_Chapter XXIII_

_Breakfast and Flashbacks_

Despite Vegas being her city, Sara let Alex pick the venue. She was content to relax in the plush leather seat, drink champagne and marvel at the smooth ride that the limousine provided. It was positively lavish, but at one time she had been used to this kind of treatment. It came with the territory of dating an A List Celebrity, and at one time, Sara had been an expert at that. Lately, the last seven years or so, her dating game had been slightly disappointing in comparison. They pulled to a stop in front of thel Paris. Sara controlled her chuckle, it was another blatant allusion to their life together. While San Francisco had always been home, Paris had always seemed to hold a special magic for them. They had vacationed there every year. It had been, of course, a working vacation for the fashion model, two weeks had been centered around the all important Fashion Week. Sara always timed her arrival so she could see the grand finale, then have Alex all to herself for the two weeks of their joint vacation. They had seen the Louvre, the Arc de Triumph, Alex had dragged her to the club scene, then indulged her by accompanying her on tours of the Paris Interpol Forensics Centre and the City's lab facility. It had been under the stars lights of the Eiffel Tower that Alex had told Sara she loved her for the first time, and it had been in this same city that Sara had told Alex of her mother's bloody legacy.

She smirked as the concierge lead them to what was referred to as "The most beautiful dining room in Las Vegas." The Paris's Les Artistes Steakhouse wasn't usually open for breakfast, but the name Alexandra Dupree had opened plenty of doors for them in the past. Sara wasn't especially surprised about this one. "What, was the Eiffel Tower Restaurant was taken?" Alex chuckled, "Yes, actually, some wedding bullshit. The concierge looked slightly scandalized, most people didn't expect a supermodel to act so normal or so crass. Sara only grinned, it was classic Alex. Flowers, a nod to their favorite city, Alex was even wearing her favorite perfume. It wasn't a particularly rare or expensive scent. It was a designer knock off that Alex had started wearing when she couldn't afford any better. Sara liked it better than any of the multitude of other perfumes that were within the model's reach. It was the smell of Alexandra Dupree, the woman.

When they were seated, Alex stretched languidly. "God, I haven't done this in years. It feels decadent and slightly alcoholic to be drinking at eight am. I am either becoming a Republican or getting old." Sara smiled, "Funny, I never knew you to turn down a drink no matter what time it was." Alex draped her arm over the back of her chair and in an almost lazy way signalled a server so they could order. "That's true, very true. I've partied on every civilized continent and several uncivilized countries. After a while, though, the glitter dulled and I realized that I was surrounded by kids half my age, and I couldn't call a damn one of them my friend. If I had known then what I know now," She chuckled almost bitterly, "Lets just say I would have done things very differently."

Sara shrugged, "Wouldn't we all?" The dining room was gorgeous. Sara made herself not gawk like a tourist. The butter yellow walls and the Impresionist paintings, the multiple balconies and mezzinas, the frescoed ceiling. The room was beautiful, Alex was beautiful and she was in danger of relxing. Luckily for her, they were interrupted before she could fully convince herself that they were really in Paris. Their server was a painfully thin red head who looked completely in awe of Alex. She was also completely American. The blonde offered her a smile, then turned to Sara, "You still take your omelette with four cheeses, mushrooms and hot sausage?"

For a moment Sara only sat, then she blinked, "Um, no. No, I'm a vegetarian now."

There was a moment of silence. It was, for Sara's part, uncomfortable, and for Alex, shocked silence. Then, with their server standing there, looking from one of them to the other, Alex laughed out loud. "Well shit! Right, okay, well it's a good thing I went with the orchids instead of the box of steaks I thought about sending you."

Sara tried, but couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face. That had been something that had attracted her in the first place. Even in the face of unspeakable gloom, gore, and complete seriousness, Alex had always been able to make her smile.

Alexandra Dupree, Sara thought as the server left with their orders, didn't fit into any given slot and would have been surprised, make that scandalized, if someone had tried. She was one of the top ladies of the highly competitive runway. Fashion designers adored her, the camera loved her and her contract had, in 2000, been worth close to five million and that was without bonuses. In her work, Alex was very much a perfectionist and something of a primadonna. She was also a workaholic and very in love with her job. That was something they'd had in common from the beginning. In her personal life, though, Alex remained the girl from Sioux Falls, North Dakota. She ate pizza off of paper napkins, cursed like a sailor and was a die hard Packers fan. She was a woman full of complex contradictions and surprising quirks.

There was the beautiful, untouchable woman who wore designer gowns that cost more than most people made in a year and graced the covers of glossy magazines. Behind the flashbulbs and drama of _the industry _was a woman who had periodic, borderline scary, Big Mac cravings and a bad habit for misplacing everything from her keys to her cellphone on a daily basis. There was the woman the press loved and the woman that Sara loved, had loved.

Public versus private. Alex had lived a double life and done well, very well. For a while, at least. Her career had skyrocketed almost overnight. The line between her public and private life had blurred almost into non-existence. With the fame that Alex had so craved had come more traveling, more stress and far more temptations. Temptations, like her own very strong one to slide back into the past, had been their undoing in the end. Sara smiled and thanked the server when her plate came and looked across the table at Alex.

Sara wasn't stone; she was still stirred by the other woman, even after seven years. Some things you never forgot. Your first bike, your first car, your first love. There could only be one first, and you never forgot it. Even if the end had been a disaster of Katrina-like proportions, everything hadn't been bad.

"Have you been hit since?"

Sara looked up, "What?"

Alex smiled, "What was it I threw at you the first time we met?" Sara laughed at the memory that floated up, "A can of hairspray, you threw a can of hairspray at me." Across the table, Alex's forget-me-not blue eyes sparkled, "And I hit you too, then was all but tackled by fifty cops." Sara took a sip of the new bottle of champenge they'd been brought. It was a good vintage, "Don't over-exagerate, there were only five unis."

_San Fransisco_

_1996_

_She was bent over a microscope, puzzling over a fibre she'd tape lifted off of a dead man's tee shirt. She jumped when Riley burst into the room, knocking her nose against the eyepiece in the process. The man she scowled at only shrugged, "Sara, grab your case you're with me tonight." _

_She stood up, "Awesome." _

_Riley only rolled his eyes, "Don't feel special, Kid, you're the only monkey in this damn barrel that I can trust to behave tonight." _

_She cocked an eyebrow as she repacked the evidence. "Strip Bar?" _

_Riley shook his head, so while she resealed the bag, she tried again, "Bordello?" _

_Riley laughed, "If only. No, we've got a Priority One in downtown. Dead underwear model." _

_Sara blinked, "How is an __**underwear**__ model rate priority one?" Riley waited until she'd stored the evidence then motioned her to follow. _

"_When a dead twenty year old dies in the middle of __**the**__ Victoria's Secret fashion show of the year, it's a priority one. Press is already circling like vultures." Sara almost had to jog to keep up with her long-legged boss. "I need you to wear your badge, gun, take the fancy looking kit and try not to look like you're twelve, Kid." _

_She would have laughed at his joke, but was too busy absorbing the fact that she was going in on a two-man Priority One as a CSI I. It was practically unheard of, and man- oh- man were the boys going to be pissed. When Riley ducked into his office, presumably to retrieve his own kit, she indulged herself in a short victory dance._

_The ride over was filled with Riley's gruff reminder of how to conduct herself with the press. Since she'd heard this speech enough times to recite it in the short time she'd been a CSI, she only passively listened. The majority of her concentration was on the early evening rush hour traffic she was weaving through. _

_Their crime scene, the show, was being held at 1192 Market Street, the Orpheum Theatre_. Sara had never been there, _it wasn't hard to find. An underwear show, for some reason that Sara couldn't quite fathom, had gotten the red carpet treatment. Traffic was backed up for blocks, there were bright search lights marking the spot and there was, of course, the red carpet entrance. _

_She looked around, craning her neck from left to right, trying to find the coroner's van in the mess of press and black and whites. "Please don't tell me we have to go through the front." _

_The other CSI sat in the passenger seat shrugged and continued to twist and turn his trademark Rubix Cube. " Crazies try to get at the girls so there's only two ways in and out. The front and the back. Bringing a body down the carpet isn't what the Chief wants, so we get to go in back." _

_She almost sighed in relief. A uniform waved them through and Sara got a look at the front. Press and the civilian observers Riley had dubbed Looky-Loos were pressed up against the velvet ropes that bordered the famous red carpet. She wondered, vaguely, which press had been here from the start and which were the sharks who had smelled blood. It didn't actually matter, they were all going to be a pain in the neck. She followed the uniform's hand signals around the theatre to an alley that already held the coroner's van and an unmarked Sedan. She put the department issued GMC Jimmy into park and got out. Riley, after stowing his puzzle in the glove box, followed her. _

_Inspectors Davis and Ashbourne from Homicide were already there. Sara offered each a nod as she went around and got her kit out of the SUV's hatch. Russell Davis was a cop's cop. He had worked his way up from Beat Cop to SWAT only to take a bullet for his partner four years later. The resulting damage to his thigh -- a shredded muscle and broken femur -- had left him behind a desk for a year. It had been during that year that he took his Inspector's exam and had done so well on it he'd been placed in Robbery-Homicide. That had been five years ago, now he was being considered for Lieutenant in Homicide. He was tall, dark, dangerous and made all the Lab Ladies swoon. He was also married to his wife of twelve years with three girls and one more on the way. His partner was light, blonde hair and blue eyes, to his dark, a graceful 5'7" and no more than one hundred and fifteen pounds to his gargantuan 6'4" and two hundred pounds. Lucy Ashbourne was a by the book, computer savvy naturally curious woman who was shoulder deep in testosterone and made it look easy. She was also an ex-wife to an orthodontist and full time mother to two small boys. Davis and Ashbourne had been partners for two years and they worked together surprisingly well. Who knew how many times they had covered for each other. Between one ex and one current spouse and five and a half children, Sara was sometimes surprised they had energy left for the perps. _

_She lugged her kit and stood with them. Davis grinned at her and held out a hand, not to help her, but to collect. His Raiders had beaten her Niners, she should have known better than to bet on sentiment. Lucy, who was standing beside her, told her so as she took her half of the twenty dollar bet from her partner. With her wallet lighter, she switched her kit back to her other hand. _

"_All right, Luce, tell us what we have in there." _

_The blonde woman pushed her bangs out of her face, "About twenty-five hundred scared civilians, fifty and some change models and support people, and around thirty more stage crew in back and one very dead model who fell from the ceiling right onto the runway during the first fifteen minutes of the show." _

_Beside her, Riley grunted. "Runway the primary?" _

_Russell Davis shook his head, "I went up there myself, it was stashed up there in the catwalks and whatnot and fell. Probably when the lights started working for the show. The primary is one of the dressing rooms, hers. Signs of a major struggle in there." _

_Riley was technically in charge of the scene as Head CSI, and the Inspectors respected that, so he called the shots. "Who's the top of the totem here on your end?" _

_Davis ran his hand over his close cropped dark brown hair, "Caps here, but he's off with the movers and shakers." _

_Riley nodded, "Okay, I'll take the body and runway, Russ, I'll want you talking to anyone who had access to the catwalk before and during the show. Sara, take the dressing room, and Lucy, you get to talk to the models." Before any of them could even take a step towards the door, Riley held up a finger. "Talk to the press and I'll dump you in the Bay." _

_Sara, camera around her neck, moved through the backstage area, taking photos as she went. The stage was only the finished product, the backstage was the real show. There were women in robes, women in just the skimpy thongs and bras they were supposed to modeling. Some were crying, others were fighting, some were quiet. There were signs of backstage chaos. Lip gloss on the floor here, a clothes rack positioned for quick wardrobe changes, tape and chalk lines on the floor. There were folders and hastily stapled together chunks of paper lying around everywhere. Everyone seemed to have a walkie-talkie and no one was paying any heed to them. Because it was warmer than she expected, Sara took off her dark navy blue windbreaker and tied it around her waist. It was a maze of rooms, curtained off areas and open stations. Uniformed officers, mostly female, were trying to take statements and were, for the most part, failing miserably. Sara moved through the crowd, trying to eventually get to the room she was interested in. She could hear Lucy, somewhere on her left, arguing with someone. _

_Sara worked towards the cordoned off primary scene, juggling her camera and her kit, when one of the many doors flew open. She didn't know it then, but she was about to get her first dose of an Alexandra Dupree tantrum, and unfortunately, she'd walked directly into the line of fire._

_The first person to exit the room was a bald man who could only be described as quite possibly the gayest man she'd ever seen. Since this was San Francisco, that was saying something. The next thing to come out of the room was a round hairbrush. _

"_Forget you, Manny! Anastia is dead and I am fucking tired of this bullshit!" _

_The woman who followed, and presumably threw, the hairbrush was clad only in white silk high cut panties and a bra that clung to her breasts like a second, supportive, skin. The white stood out against her golden skin and the honey gold curls, but her eyes were what caught Sara's attention. They were blazing with anger. _

"_I am tired of the fucking press and the fucking stupid cops asking me questions. The press just needs to give us space and the cops need to start solving the case and stop harassing us! The next person who says one thing to me is going to-" She ended the sentence in a growl. Her hand darted back into the room and came back out with one of the biggest cans of hairspray Sara had ever seen. Sara would have preferred to wait out the primadonna's show, but the blonde model saw her first._

"_WHAT THE HELL IS PRESS DOING BACK HERE NOW?! FUCKING VULTURES!" Between her kit and her camera, which she jerked to the side, Sara wasn't able to catch the can being hurled at her, and was too shocked at the outburst to move. The aluminum aeresol can hit her dead square in the chest, fell to hit the toe of her boot then rolled across the floor. Sara looked from the can to the thrower. _

"_I'm Sara Sidle with the SFPD Forensics Department, I just need to know which one is Miss Kovak's dressing room so I can start solving the case."_

_Author's Note: Oh boy, it's a flashback! On a somewhat seriouser note, the dates and timeline used in this series is based on a few facts. Sara was born on September 17, 1971. She graduated highschool when she was 16 and arrived in Las Vegas in the second episode of the first season, which would be in 2000. I'm sure I've made a few errors, but I'm going to claim writer's privlage and leave it at that. _


	25. Chapter XXIV: Two CSIs and a Model

_Chapter XXIV_

_Two CSIs and a Model Walk into a Bar_

The good thing, maybe the only good thing, about the Braun name and her now public connection to it was the motivational factor it held. When she put out the word that Sam's girl, as she was so called, was looking for Alexandra Dupree, she'd gotten the call from the Hotel Paris in record time. The Casino Grapevine worked faster than an APB or a BOLO any day of the week, especially Sunday, in Las Vegas. Catherine was on the brink of a fortune. A fortune that was tied up in a gigantic hole in the ground that had become an overnight crime hotspot, but a fortune nevertheless. All that potential money and power got attention. _People_ were suddenly hyper aware of her. She was Sam Braun's daughter and, illegitimate or not, she was his heir apparent. She didn't think that had ever been Sam's plan. Had things gone as Sam Braun had wanted, his favourite son Tony would be the Crown Prince of Vegas. Walt, Sam's other son, and her own half brother, had destroyed any chances of that. Sam and Tony were dead, Walt was in a maximum security prison and she was left with something she'd never wanted, needed or thought of having. Not to say that Sam's legacy didn't come in handy.

They were -- Catherine almost snarled -- eating in a five star restaurant, and Alexandra Dupree, being an A-List Celeb, had been given the best seat in the house without hesitation. For a moment, Catherine stood and simply stared at the two women from the room's ornate entry. They were the only diners in the most beautiful dining room in Vegas and quite possibly the entire west coast and were too wrapped up in each other to notice.

One would think that Sara would look plain beside the lush and outrageous beauty of Alex Dupree. Somehow, though, she didn't. Instead of overshadowing Sara, Alex seemed to compliment her. Light and dark, Catherine noted, and frowned at the pang of familiarity of the scene. They were opposites, Sara Sidle and Alexandra Dupree. Where Alex was unapologetically sexy and bold, Sara was almost naively unaware of her won unique beauty. Even sitting beside a world-renowned beauty, Sara could never pass as a plain Jane. She was long, lean, dark and sober to the point of brooding. Sara was, in Catherine's mind, the model of one of the Victorian Age's tragic romance characters. She would be far more suited to the cliffs, mists, shadows and dark enchantments of a bittersweet black and white drama. Alexandra Dupree, on the other hand, flourished and fed off of the bright lights, vibrant colors and larger than life personalities of the runway.

She could not hear, from where she was standing, what they were saying. She could, however, read Sara's facial expressions and see her dark eyes over Dupree's shoulder. There were emotions stirring there. Emotions that weren't supposed to be there. Not for a years old ex, and definitely not for a _suspect_. Sara only thought she knew Alexandra Dupree, and seeing Sara now, Catherine realized that she had only thought she'd known the other CSI. This had to stop and she was the one holding the shiny red and white octagon sign. When the blonde bombshell took Sara's hand and leaned in, Catherine started walking. She might not like Sara, but she sure as hell wasn't going to let the other woman kiss a _murderer_ again.

* * *

She had missed Sara, her Sahara, and it stung like hell. She was supposed to be over her. She was an adult for God's sake. Seven years, it had been seven years and she was still as nervous as she had been in the very beginning. Nervous and excited and turned on and she was acting completely irrational. She could, and often did, hold court, date and sleep with the most gorgeous women in the world. How did one geeky brunette hold her attention so firmly? Apparently, she wasn't as over Sara as she had thought, and that was pathetic. Her heart had literally jumped when she'd caught a glimpse of the woman at the college campus. At first she had done a double take, thinking it was only a slight resemblance and her own overactive imagination. The more she had looked though, the more sure she had become real. That jackass son of a bitching bastard Riley had lied to her. Lied right to her face.

No, he had let her jump to her own conclusions and run with them. It had been his way of protecting both of them. Damn fucking feel-good hippy. If she didn't like him so well, she would scratch his eyes out. Well fuck. Maybe she would have been better off thinking Sara was forever unreachable, teaching sixth grader's science in some one horse town living under an assumed name. Safe from the dangers of her job, and from Alex herself. It had been a comforting little delusion that she'd let herself believe. Sara would no sooner give up being a CSI than she would breathing. She had simply moved on. She had moved on to a new city and a new life. A life without Alexandra Jane Dupree. God, she sounded like a lovesick teenager.

"So what brought you to Vegas? I would have thought you'd go back to Boston or Miami, even." Alex sliced a piece of her own omelette off and bit into it, savouring the flavours, "Or you could have made Director Ronaldo's decade and jetted off to Interpol's team."

Across from her, Sara's face knit into a sad frown, "Delroi died three years ago in a bombing."

Momentarily taken aback, Alex fell silent. She had fallen out of touch with the Frenchmen after Sara had left. He had been a good, just man, and one hell of a cook.

"How did Collete take it?"

Sahara stared at her plate. "She was with him." The brittle look in Sara's eyes told Alex not to pursue the subject any further.

"Vegas." She shook her head, and began filling her glass once more, "You don't even gamble, except with your life. You just up and left home and came here. For what, a job? You could have gone anywhere, somewhere _safe_."

Sara let out a chuckle, "I'm in the middle of a desert, how much safer could I be?"

Alex had expected this argument. It was, Sahara Sun Sidle after all, and she was as hard headed as ever. "I don't know, why don't we ask the Miniature Killer?" It was, Alex knew, a low blow, but she dealt it with good intentions. The brunette went stiff and her face was unreadable. If she ever had been bitten by the gambling bug, Sara's game would be poker.

"Alex, things are different now. I'm _different_ now."

Alex took one quick up and down look of the woman. "You've changed your hair, taken to wearing darker colors, lost weight and moved, but none of that changes who you are." She punctuated her sentence with a jab of her fork in Sara's direction. "You're not sleeping enough," Another jab, "You're picking at your food." This jab was aimed in the general direction of Sara's still mostly full plate, "And you're wincing when you drink. The last time that happened, you were courting a serious ulcer." Another jab, "So to sum up, you're still a workaholic who needs a damn keeper. You can't save the world, you know that. Yet every day, you go in and shoulder the entire city's sorrows and expect to make them all better."

Sara banged her fist on the table hard enough to rattle the settings, "Enough! This isn't your business anymore. You didn't care when I left so don't pretend you do now" The flush in Sara's cheeks was more from anger than drink now and her voice was low, raspy, accusing and just a little bit dangerous. It sounded like that only when Sara had completely lost her temper or when she let go of her inhibitions. Since they weren't having sex, it was easy to guess that Sara's top had just blown. Alex knew Sara, and this outburst had probably been building for a while; she was just the one to catch the initial shock wave of what would be a strong emotional explosion. "So whose business is it now? Who watches over you now, takes care of you, keeps you safe? Who put all that fucking misery in your eyes?"

Sara had always been amused by her language, the profanity that had worked it's way into her daily vocabulary. Most were shocked by it, such ugly words coming from a beautiful mouth, but Sara had been simply_amused_. Now, it only served to make her angrier. Then, she slumped, like a balloon that was suddenly deflated.

"It's complicated, I mean I-" The deep lines that suddenly cut into Sara's forehead only went to show how much this certain subject bothered her. "It's-" She looked up, and stared for a moment into the space over Alex's left shoulder. She sat up straighter, and tugged her hand out from under Alex's own. "It's Catherine."

Alex quickly ran the list of new names she associated with Sahara through her mind, trying to match it up with the faces she'd seen. "Catherine. Catherine? Catherine, the blonde? The bitchy blonde? You're with _her_ now?"

Sara's dark eyes narrowed, "No. No, she's here, now."

Alex turned, an unconcerned, borderline smug mask plastered over her features, in her chair in time to see the aforementioned blonde bitch, working her way around and between tables toward them. She walked very much like, Alex decided, a model or a stripper. With confidence, purpose and in this case, pure and unadulterated female fury. Alex recognized the scent of danger in the air. That much anger coming from a pissed bitch with a gun, and she was glaring right at them. These sorts of situations never ended well. There were several ways to handle herself and she quickly chose one.

She lazily raised an eyebrow and turned towards Sara, "You have to learn to leave work _things_ at work, Sahara."

* * *

Sara Sidle's first thought upon seeing Catherine walk into the dining room was a curse. She had obviously been around Alex too long already. As if she wasn't having enough problems with one blue eyed blonde, in walked another. She really didn't want to deal with Catherine right now, wasn't even sure she had the patience left to. Then she was momentarily and completely baffled as to why Catherine was there at all. Confusion was swiftly replaced by a hot and bitter wave of anger.

_How dare she?_

How dare Catherine butt into her personal life, bold and brash and in living color like this? Hadn't she had her fill yet? Between her suddenly public relationship with Gil and the somewhat less publicized break-up and then the kiss Alex had laid on her, her life had been under a microscope, every part of it studied and categorized like a case. Couldn't Catherine just keep her nose out of it? Gossip, as much as Sara hated being the target of it, was one thing, but this was out of line. Catherine had followed her from the Lab to her breakfast meeting - date? – no, meeting, definitely meeting. It was way the hell out of line.

Sara's temper skyrocketed and her stomach, already disgruntled from the champagne, erupted into pain so intense she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from wincing. If she had wondered if her stomach issues were stress related, she definitely had her answer now. She gripped the edge of the cloth-covered table until her fingernails blanched white. Catherine was pushing _all_ of her buttons lately. It was like the other woman _wanted_ a fight. Sara was off the clock, out of the lab and just pissed enough to give Catherine what she so obviously wanted.

Alex, who had switched her attention back around the table, took one quick look at her before muttering a curse under her breath. "Sahara,_don't_." It was almost funny. When Alex Dupree became the voice of reasons, things were bad. Of course, as she was just about to tell Alex, she did not need a keeper. She was an adult and she could handle her own problems. Of course, punching Catherine in the face didn't sound very adult or appropriate. Sara stood up, letting the neatly folded cloth napkin she had fastidiously put on her lap fall on the floor.

"You have got some _nerve_, Catherine, freaking _balls_ to pull this." She came around the table, her fists balled up. It was then she noticed the two uniformed Sheriff's Deputies behind the CSI. Sara looked from the grave and serious men to Catherine and back again. "I want an explanation, and I want it _now_." She stared right into Catherine's blue eyes and challenged her to answer.


	26. Chapter XXV: Breakfast Theatre

_Chapter XXV_

_Breakfast Theatre_

Sofia walked down the familiar main corridor of the Crime Lab with a cup of coffee in one hand and the printed results of the VICAP search that she'd yet to look over tucked under the other. In the uproar of the survivor coming forward, she had never gotten a chance to even glance at the results. It was good that all the PD computers printed off VICAP findings automatically. She sipped and gulped the rapidly cooling coffee as she walked because she desperately needed the caffeine boost to ensure she didn't collapse halfway to the garage. Exactly why Greg Sanders had asked her to come to the garage at eight thirty in the morning was beyond her. Whatever it was, when it was over and done with she was going home to spend eight hours horizontal in a dark room with her phone off.

Luckily for her, Sofia's feet knew exactly where they were going so she didn't have to pay attention to where they were taking her. Some of the CSIs and techs she had worked with on the day shift raised a hand or greeting or even tried to talk to her. Funny, they had avoided her like the plague when she had pissed Ecklie off. She was too tired to deal with office politics this morning. She was not too tired to miss the thumping music coming from the garage. She wasn't positive, but she was pretty sure it was Nine Inch Nails coming out from the contraband stereo sitting on the garage's work table.

The garage itself was set up for something other than tearing a car apart. She could distinguish two distinct areas, but her fatigue fuzzed brain was having trouble locking down on the purpose of the whole thing. It was slightly strange, even for the CSIs, and that was saying something.

Greg had set out a long rectangle table and a smaller round table with chairs between the two, one side of the garage. The other held several of the foam pads that the lab used for various simulations. Sofia had fallen, tumbled and been thrown onto them more than once. The bagged and tagged candlestick from the room was sitting by the pads and the concept of what Sanders was doing finally settled in on her brain. The CSI in question was currently spreading empty beer bottles around the bar half of the room. Since she was tired, a little grumpy and slightly intrigued by what he was doing, she switched the stereo off.

Greg's head swivelled around when the music abruptly stopped. He had been squatted down, fiddling with the bottles and had to put a hand on the smooth concrete floor to steady himself. "Hey, you made it!"

She nodded, "Yeah. Okay, I get the bar scene and even the motel set up, but you've lost me on the music."

Greg bounced up and rubbed his hands together in what she could only describe as glee. "That's mood music, I finally get to nail Wendy."

Sofia blinked once, "That was way too much information, Sanders."

She turned to leave, but Wendy was already on her way in, carrying one of the dummy heads the lab used for blood spatter tests in one hand and one of the lightweight foam pillow bodies used for space taking purposes awkwardly thrown over the other arm.

"Well, technically, I'll be nailing Greg." The DNA expert put the heavy head down. "He's the same height and weight as Preston Abernathy and I volunteered to be the killer."

Sofia finished off her coffee, "Okay, Wendy, you disturb me." She turned to Greg, "And you're just as bad. Whatever, while she's setting you up on the bed, would you like to bring me up to speed on what we have on the real killer?"

The spiky haired CSI nodded, "Sure. Griss sent me with Brass to Jackpot to flash pictures and ask questions. While I was there, I got the tapes for the last weeks worth of footage from their bar cams."

That perked Sofia up. "God bless Bar Cams."

Bar cams had become something of an unwritten bar requirement in Sin City. A simple closed system camera system that had one camera, usually mounted on the back wall behind the bartenders to catch the faces of the patrons picking up their drinks at the bar. The other camera was mounted in the ceiling or bar overhand and it focused on the hands, timestamps matched up the two synchronized shots for quick identification of anyone who tampered with drinks. A bar the size of Jackpot usually had two to three pairs of cameras.

Greg sighed, "The system only works if both cameras are working. The station our killer used only had their hand cam working that night. So all we have are hands."

On the one hand, Sofia wanted to scream. They had come so close, only to miss their killer by a inch. On the other, this was more than what they had before.

"Tell me about her hands, then."

Greg flashed a grin. "I thought you might ask."

He led her over to the far side of the garage where he had a lab laptop up and running. "Archie played with the footage, we have three-second snaps of her, and turned up a couple of interesting things." He tapped the keys and brought up a picture. "I just grabbed the finished products, I figured you would rather see these than get walked through the whole process."

Sofia nodded and leaned over to get a better look. The first picture Greg brought up had been focused, zoomed and cropped around the glass and the package in the woman's hands, the roofies she had dropped in Preston Abernathy's drink. Sofia squinted, "I can't quite make out if there's a dealer's mark on the package."

Greg sighed, "Either the dealers are getting smart or the killer took the time to make sure she removed all identifying marks."

Sofia absently drummed her fingers on the counter top. "But how many women buy date rape drugs? Surely the dealers would get wise."

Greg shrugged, "She could be cooking her own. It's not like you need a degree in chemistry to pull it off."

Sofia mentally filed that idea away, "Okay, next."

The next shot was of the woman's hands. Sofia stared at them for a minute, the hands of a vicious killer didn't look that much different from her own. "Caucasian. Short unpainted nails. No scars or tats, nothing identifying. The only jewellery is a discount store watch on the left wrist, which means she's a righty and a ring on the left."

Before she could ask for a close up on the ring, Greg brought it up. "We couldn't get that much detail off of the ring." He shrugged, "Bar lighting, cheap camera and all that, but what does it look like to you?"

Sofia tilted her head to the left. "Class ring." She blinked and felt a grin start to glide over her face, "It's a _class ring_." He handed her a glossy print of the ring. "The stone is a garnet, which could mean our killer was born in January. It's gold and look at the stone."

Sofia squinted, "There's a horse head underneath or inside of the stone."

Greg was positively bouncing now. "A mustang. There is only one company that does inlaid gold engraving under the stone on class rings, and I bet you ordered your class ring from them just like I did."

There was only one company that jumped to mind. They did class and championship rings, and she had ordered both hers, one marking her as a graduate of the George Washington High School class of 1980, and one for her Basketball Conference Championship in College. Balfour was the company to go to for rings and to her knowledge they had a database of rings they made and the customers who bought them.

"Can you lift a school name and graduation year to go along with the mascot?"

Greg stopped bouncing. "All we have is a two-thousand something year and the school name definitely starts with an M. Archie worked three hours trying for more. We just couldn't get anything else, it's too shadowed and if we try to zoom anymore, the image pixelates too badly."

She thought for a moment and the speed of her drumming increased, then she suddenly stopped. "Get in touch with Balfour. We won't be able to get a warrant for their sales records, but ask them for a list of all M named high schools in the country that have Mustangs, or any variant of Mustangs, as their mascot."

Greg shrugged, "Okay, but that doesn't get us that far."

Sofia slid the glossy into her case folder. "No, but when I take it to UNLV, we'll be able to do a search and use the high schools as parameters."

Greg started bouncing again, "Are we looking at the university hard?"

Sofia nodded, "Too many connections to campus to be a coincidence. If we run only women faculty, staff and student body against the schools, we'll be able to zero in on our killer."

She opened the file again, to look at her checklist. "How is Mandi coming with the print reconstruction?"

Wendy, from across the room, began to fill her in. While the two women were talking, Greg looked over Sofia's file. He was a science kind of guy, but could appreciate the good solid police work it took to back science up and build a case from it. His eyebrow lifted as he flicked through the numerous pages in Sofia's file.

"Sofia did you read the VICAP report yet?"

Halfway across the garage, talking to Wendy in hushed tones, the Detective looked up. "No, not yet, why?"

Greg held up one of the printed sheets. "We have a problem."

Both women abandoned whatever topic they had been discussing and joined Greg. He moved aside so they could see.

Wendy spoke first, "Three reported deaths in San Francisco."

Sofia, mouth dry, continued, "Four deaths and three reported survivors in Boston."

Greg picked up from there, "Two deaths in Chicago, one in New York, two in Los Angeles and a survivor in Atlanta."

The three of them stood in a semi circle around the files, stunned into silence.

Author's Note: Dun Dun Duuuuum!


	27. Chapter XXVI: I Can Explain

_Chapter XXVI_

_I Can Explain_

It was, for the few members of hotel staff, the two Sheriff's deputies and Alex, quite a sight. Anyone from the crime lab could have told them it was a rather regular occurrence, but seeing was believing. The two women with only a few space between them, were facing off like two gladiators on the brink of their fight to the death. There was power in their eyes, flickering blue and brown-gone-black, both full of fury bubbling just under the surface. Of all the things Sara expected, of all the responses she could have imagined, what actually came out of Catherine's mouth had never crossed her mind. It blew her away, and for a moment, she thought she might have had a little too much to drink. When Catherine broke the silence and spoke, all eyes were on her. She had the room's attention, and those who knew her, knew that was just how the woman would have wanted it. Her voice was glacial and sharp enough to bring blood.

"We're here to escort Miss Dupree in for questioning; she's a person of interest."

Sara looked from Catherine to Alex, then back again, not quite believing what she'd heard. Catherine looked determined; her face a professional mask that only barely covered the flickers of temper beneath it. Alex, on the other hand, looked genuinely surprised. She shrugged at Sara before the woman turned back around. Sara couldn't quite snap the scene into proper focus. It was like staring at a microscope slide under the wrong power. Did Catherine think she was stupid? Surely not.

"A person of interest?" Sara uttered the phrase and tasted the bitter dregs of it on her tongue. What the _hell_ was Catherine trying to pull? Did she think this kind of _bullshit_ was funny? Catherine, for her part, looked smug as she nodded. Sara hated that particular expression on the blonde's face. It was the one she used when she pulled rank or convinced someone to agree with her over Sara. It wasn't a pretty look, but Catherine seemed to enjoy it immensely. The urge to punch her was coming back, stronger then ever. Despite her anger, Sara cleared her throat. "What case could she possibly be linked to, Catherine?"

The blonde CSI waited a beat, "The Device Killings."

The words went off like a bomb, quickly rushing a line of fire through Sara's synapses and all the way down her spinal cord. She sputtered and felt like the wind had been sucked out of her lungs.

"W-what? Are you out of your damn mind?!" Her voice sounded creaky, like she was being slowly strangled. "That's impossible." Sara couldn't remember being so angry at Catherine before, in all the years she'd known her. The other woman had done and said many things, but this took the cake. Alex, had slowly stood up and was now at Sara's elbows, her eyes darting from Catherine to the khaki-clad deputies.

"What is she talking about, Sahara?" The super model's voice held a touch of fear and despite the years and the heartbreak, it chilled Sara. What was worse was that she had no answer for Alex, she didn't have a damn clue. She glared at Catherine, her teeth clenched, her jaw tight, to keep herself from verbally attacking her direct supervisor.

Catherine stood, cool as a cucumber, and waited. Sara could see that Catherine's jaws were held just as tight as hers and a delicate vein in her temple throbbed in pace with her pulse. "Did your_girlfriend_ neglect to tell you that she's been very active in the Take Action Now Foundation? In fact, she's the co-founder and the current National Chairwoman of it? There's even a disturbing little website all about it."

Sara blinked, "Alex has been involved in Women's Causes since I met her. I don't see what that has to do with anything." She of course, did see exactly what that could mean. It didn't, however, excuse Catherine's behaviour. There were channels to go through and regulations. You just didn't burst in and ruin someone's breakfast da... meeting.

The other woman didn't even flinch. "Officers."

The two officers looked very uncomfortable. While neither liked taking orders from the CSIs, none wanted to anger either of the women. The younger Deputy held out his cuffs. "We're very sorry about this, Miss Dupree, CSI Sidle."

Somewhat deflated, Sara stepped away. "Cuff her in front, she won't cause any problems, David."

Deputy David Hembry did so and tried not to stare as Sara unbuttoned the black shirt. Ignoring Catherine, Sara spoke directly to the pale, speechless and now handcuffed Alex.

Because Sara knew exactly what was going through the other woman's head, she spoke to her quietly. "Alex, listen, I'm going to call your agent and they'll send a lawyer, then I'm going to come in and sort all of this out, okay?" Clad only in a black tank top, Sara pushed her shed shirt over Alex's hands to hide the cuffs.

The Officers led Alex away, but Catherine and Sara remained, glaring at each other.

Sara was livid. "A person of interest, Catherine? What, do you think she is, our killer?"

Catherine scowled, "You don't know the half of it, Sara."

Sara crossed her arms over her chest. "I _do_know Catherine. I know Alex. She's not capable of that."

Catherine turned to leave. "You know her, like Grissom knows you, there's some pages missing in between huh?"

Before Catherine got three steps away, Sara grabbed her arm and pulled her back around. "I don't know what your problem is, but stop throwing Grissom in my face. That is _private._"

Catherine narrowed her eyes, "It's never private when you're_ fucking_ your boss and cheating on him to top it all. What is this some kind of payback for Lady Heather?"

Sara let go of Catherine's arm, "I don't-what-where-where do you come off. Listen, here's a newsflash for you. I'm not –" Sara's voice rose and echoed off the rounded walls, "fucking Grissom anymore. Not that it's any of your damn business, but I haven't even spoken to him outside of work in six months. Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry I didn't send out a memo for everyone, but it's sort of a sore spot for me, being dumped. Getting dumped on my ass was _great_, of course it is a little fuzzy since I could barely hear his little speech over my own EKG."

_Desert Palms Hospital _

_Medical Wing_

_Six Months Ago_

"_She's stabilized, Mr. Grissom.," Doctor Eric Burton reassured him. "Her arm will still require surgery, but for tonight we're going to leave it in the splint." _

_Gil Grissom ran his hand through his gray hair. "And the exposure, the dehydration, how bad is it?" _

_Dr. Burton smiled, "She is one tough young woman, I'll give her that. She came through this like a pro. We've got her on IV liquids and we're monitoring her vitals closely. Honestly, though, she covered her head and kept her wits about her and that was the best thing she could have done. Outside of a nasty first degree sunburn, some scrapes and her arm, Sara is going to be perfectly fine. I don't even think she'll have one single scar on her from this ordeal. The doctor followed Grissom's stormy blue eyes across the hallway and into the open door of Sara's private room. There were two deputies standing at the door; it was a sort of honor guard for the CSI who had survived a hellish night and day. "As you can see, she's been upgraded from ICU and her status is set as stable." _

_Relief flooded the older man and he sagged against the wall. "Thank you."_

_The doctor smiled, "Like I said, she was a trooper. Now I know there is a waiting room full of cops to see her, but we'll need to keep it short, no more than two at a time and only five minutes a piece. Visiting hours are over at seven, okay?" The doctor patted him on the shoulder and set off down the hall. _

_Gil Grissom just stared at the doorway for a while. The sun was setting outside the hospital room window and Sara's silhouette cast a shadow out into the hall. She was sleeping safe and sound. Sara was safe. She was alive, she was safe. He walked across the short hallway and into her room, repeating that mantra over and over in his head. There were flowers on nearly every flat surface. The biggest bunch, complete with balloons was from Greg, Nick and Warrick. The gifts and well wishes had come from as far away as Miami. Her kidnapping had made national news. Of course, CNN had come running when they thought the Miniature Killer, otherwise and less spectacularly known as Natalie Dell, had killed one of the investigators working on her case. _

_Killed, tried to kill. Sara could have just as easily ended up in a body bag as this hospital bed. Sara, his Sara could have _died_. She would have died alone in the desert, miles away from anyone who cared for her. All on the whim of an insane woman. All because he hadn't been able to solve the case. Natalie had come close, so incredibly close to getting away with it all. To beating the system, to outsmarting him, to taking away the only woman he'd ever allowed himself to truly love._

_She looked peaceful, his Sara. Her hair, still gritty from her sojourn in the desert, lay curled in almost spirals in a dark halo spread across the sterile white pillow. Her face was pale beneath the sunburn and scratched, but still indescribably beautiful. She was peaceful, yet not at rest. Even in a sedated sleep there was a furrow in her brow, right above her nose, that signalled that there was something sinister lurking in her dreams. The demons she couldn't quite defeat, the horrors of her childhood and the hell she'd just been through. To him, she looked like a wounded angel. There were machines around her, monitoring her vitals. Sara's heartbeat, respiration, pulse, temperature. All the autonomic, thoughtless functions that kept his Sara alive were computerized, digitalized and recorded. There were IVs, one in each arm, feeding her liquids. Replenishing her after her brush with exposure, dehydration and death._

_She was reaping the benefits of his failure. Natalie had wanted him to suffer, she'd succeeded. He had never known a pain as acute and sharp as this. It was unique and devastating. The knowledge that he'd had the information, the skills, the technology and the time to stop Natalie before she'd gotten to Sara ate at him like acid through metal. It was his fault that Sara was laying here. He had almost gotten her killed._

"_Sara," He gripped the guard rail on her hospital bed and looked down at her. One hand released its desperate grip and moved down to brush a curl out of her face and pulled back suddenly, as if he'd been burned. "I-I am so sorry." _

_He stumbled over his own words. What was he supposed to say? How could he possibly make things alright? Did she even want him there? He had only seen her open her eyes once, in the helicopter. Had she even recognized him or had she only smiled because she realized she wasn't dead or hallucinating? It was, after all, his fault she'd been targeted. If he had only been able to control himself, to handle the case better, if only._

"_It was a mistake Sara. I think we both know it. We were lucky this time and I don't know what I would do if there was a next time. I can't let there be a next time. We let our lives interfere with our jobs. I let myself relax, I think. Maybe if I had a clearer head, if I had all my attention on the case. It wouldn't have gone so far, it wouldn't have gone so wrong. _

_I dropped the ball on this one, and you're paying for it. That's not right. It's not fair to you." He closed his eyes, searching for the words he would need to say when she awoke. _

_He almost jumped when slender fingers covered his own bone white ones. "It's not your fault." _

_Her voice was raspy, like the grit and sand she'd been wading through all night and day, and pained, like the effort it took to speak was almost more than what she had. Gil Grissom opened his eyes and saw Sara, his Sara, looking up at him. Her liquid brown eyes were bloodshot, weary and only half open. _

"_Did you get her?" _

_He should have expected that question, it was after all, Sara. She licked her dry and cracked lips and winced, "Did you get her, Gil?" _

_He forced himself to nod. His head felt like it was full of lead and his neck was rigid, unbending steel. She smiled, which caused another place on her bottom lip to split. A ruby red drop of blood surfaced and then dropped to her chin. Sara winced and wiped it away, and stopped to stare at the back of her hand. It had an IV taped down to it. _

"_I really hate hospitals." _

_Gil nodded again and could almost feel a smile forming. "I know." _

_They were quiet for a moment, and Grissom walked around the bed to look out the window. Sara's room looked down on the hospital's inner courtyard and though he could not hear the bubbling, tinkling flow of water in the fountain from four stories up, he knew it would be soothing. "You could have died today."_

_He turned back around to see Sara shifting around in her bed. She had pushed the blanket aside and was moving her feet around. He could see her wince every time the smallest movement hurt her sore body. They dangled off the side of the bed, her bare feet couldn't touch the hospital's tile floor. She fought with the many tubes and wires as she moved. _

"_Well, I didn't and that _psycho freak _is off the streets. It sounds like you carried the ball over the line, Gil. You even got to save the damsel in distress." _

_He ran his hand over the back of his neck, how long had Sara been awake or at least able to hear and understand him? She was looking at her bandaged and slinged arm. _

"_Don't touch it, you still need surgery." She looked up, her eyes clearer than he'd originally thought. _

"_Plate and two screws, I know. Doctor No Relation To Tim Burton told me sometime between now and when you found me. The time line is still sort of fuzzy." She looked out the window. "Mr. Morphine and I never get along. Is today still today or is it tomorrow already?" _

_While Sara spoke, Gil moved the nearby straight-backed chair around to face her, so that when he sat, they would be eye to eye. "I didn't find you; Nicky and Sofia found you." He sat and though he wanted to take her hand, he was afraid he'd hurt her or upset the carefully placed IVs. _

_Sara licked her lips again, "Well, remind me to thank them, but it doesn't matter. You were the one I saw when I came to. I saw you and knew that everything was going to be okay. It was a very Disney moment." _

_Gil could feel the weight of the words he had to say crushing him. "Sara, Honey." He paused for a moment and wished it didn't have to be this way. In his world, though, a world where lives hung in the balance and his decisions could mean the difference between life and death, there was no other choice. "We need to talk." _

_That stopped Sara cold. She stopped messing with the many wires that were attached to her, and she looked at him, eyes completely open now. "Go ahead." _

_He took a deep breath, "I can't do this." _

_Sara quirked her lips, which caused another place, on her top lip, to crack and bleed. "This?" _

_Gil folded his fingers into a steeple in front of him, to keep them from fidgeting. When he looked at Sara, all he could think of was seeing her, half dead in the desert. All he could hear was Natalie's haunting little ditty. It echoed over and over again in his head._

"_I walked the desert all day. I dug out the Mustang she put you under, screaming your name. I felt my heart." He unsteepled his fingers and ran his hands over his face, "I swear Iskipped a beat when I found a hiker. He got caught in the storm and was half buried in a mudslide. For a minute I thought it was you and my world just... shattered. I followed your trail and the whole time all I could think of... The only thought that kept running through my mind. It was -- is my fault. I had everything right in front of me, but I didn't figure it out. I don't know, maybe I wasn't totally focused or I just –" _

_He shook his head. "I can't be with you and do my job too. Every single night, you pull on that flimsy vest on and you take your kit out, and you put your life in my hands. I can't, I won't mess that up. I almost lost you, Sara. I couldn't live with myself if –" _

_His throat was threatening to close up and tears were burning at the back of his eyes. "You're okay, this time. What about the next time, though, and the time after that? What happens when its Warrick or Catherine or any of us? Greg was beaten within an inch of his life. Jim was shot. You and Nick were kidnapped and we damn near didn't get to either of you in time. Holly Gribbs _died_. I won't risk you, Sara, not aga –"_

"_Gil. Gil. Grissom." Her words finally cut into his monologue. He could tell by looking at her that she wanted to stand, she wanted to pace. Her voice was like hot, still forming glass, rough and as hot as the sun. _

"_You are not omnipotent. We, that's all of us including me, know the dangers. Unless you forgot, Grissom. I was the one who was kidnapped, I fought and almost got away. I was the one under that Mustang. I walked the desert and left you a trail to follow. I go in every night knowing that I might not go home again. We're not cops, but we still protect and serve. We do our jobs and that puts a bulls-eye on all of our backs. Or did you forget your little face off with the Strip Strangler. What if Catherine hadn't have come to that basement when she did? Hell Gil, you could walk out of this hospital and get hit by a car, or die from a toxic bag of chocolate candy or get a wooden railroad tie through the skull. It's a crazy world out there, if you haven't noticed. I thought us being together made the world make sense. Made the craziness just a little easier to bare. It made the Natalies of the world a little less frightening."_

_He wasn't looking at her anymore and she could see tears in his eyes. There were tears, hot and salty, in hers too. Neither of them would let the tears fall. _

"_This is it, isn't it?" _

_He nodded. _

_Sara's voice began to crack and wobble. "How _noble_ of you. The great Gilbert Grissom turns his back on love so he can be a better CSI. The only way to keep me safe is to leave me." She stood and started to leave. _

"_It's not like that and you know it. I can't keep you safe when I'm with you. I love you, more than anything, and that's why I'm doing this."_

_Sara stared at him, a tear starting to escape her eye. "I can't believe this." _

_He only shrugged, "This is how it has to be." He walked away, but paused at the door. "If, when there's an inquiry." _

_Sara twisted around in bed, the monitors beeped off alerts that her blood pressure and pulse were rising too quickly, "When Ecklie comes sniffing around with his bitchy little questions I'll tell him the truth. That it was a short _moment of insanity, _that it's _over_."_

_Grissom was almost out the door, he could see a nurse rushing down the hall to check on her patient and her soaring stats, when her voice stopped him one more time._

"_I wish I were like you, Gil. I wish I didn't feel anything either." She pulled in a breath and looked away from him, out the window. "Good night, Doctor Grissom." _

_He stayed at the door, lingering for one moment more, watching his Sara. "Goodnight, Sara."_

Sara watched Catherine, just as she'd watched Grissom, leave the room. Of course the circumstances were completely diffrint but the result was exactly the same. "God, I need a ciggerete."


	28. Chapter XXVII: Developments

_Chapter XXVII_

_Developments_

Sofia stared blankly at the cellphone in her hand, then at the list of numbers she had compiled for her calls. There were five cities to talk to, and while Los Angeles and New York City each had its own Sex Crimes squad, Atlanta, Seattle and Boston did not. That made things difficult enough as it was, but to make her job a little easier on her, neither Seattle nor Boston had filled out the entire VICAP form, she didn't have the Detective's names to go on either. She blindly reached over for the coffee mug she kept at her desk for long shifts, then drank another tepid swallow of the sludge the PD passed off as coffee and longed for a few hours in the Detective's crash room. Just a few minutes on one of the bunks would do wonders. Unfortunately, a couple of the calls she had to make were on the East Coast and she was already losing daylight there because of the time difference.

San Francisco, the closest city to Vegas, was still actively working the cases, had been eager to know what, if anything, they'd found. Sergeant Inspector Davis asked straight answers and gave clear answers. She could tell he wanted the killer just as much as she did. Unfortunately, he had less than she did to go on. She pushed one hand through her limp blonde tresses and started dialling Boston PD's number, starting with the 617 area code. While she listened to the electronic beeps that signaled that her call was ringing through, she leaned back in her chair and dropped one arm over her eyes and started forming her explanation. If she said the right thing, she would cut through miles of red tape.

An hour later, she had been told that Boston was busy with its own problems and they'd get back to her after catching a spree killer. Seattle was slightly more helpful; the Homicide Captain's secretary had looked up the murders in question and had informed Sofia that Detective Abby Jones was busy having a baby and her partner had quit only a week before. She would be happy to give the captain a message when she got back in. Sofia had thanked the bubbling secretary and, when the call disconnected, banged her head against the desk.

She had problems, once again, with the LAPD. Apparently one case had gone to Robbery Homicide and the other had gone to Priority Homicide, and there was some sort of turf fight between the two squads _and_ the District Attorney's Office before the cases both went cold and attention shifted to a highway sniper. She stayed on hold for a Detective Benson or Stabler from Manhattan's Special Victim's Unit for ten minutes before giving up. Atlanta was her last hope. Atlanta, of all the God forsaken, cousin screwing, backwoods cities was her last hope. She only hoped talking to the PD would be easier then driving through the city. _That_had been a traffic nightmare that she had no wish to repeat, mandatory conference or not.

When she'd been ready to swear off cross-jurisdiction cooperation for good, the Atlanta switchboard sent her to Detective Lashawna Ellsworth, attached to newly formed Sex Crimes Unit.

Detective Ellsworth not only remembered the case in question, Sofia could hear the excitement in her voice, "Do you have a hot lead?"

Sofia swung around in her chair, using the tip of her boot to swing the chair back and forth in a half circle. "What I have is a mess. Four dbs, one living vic. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it. One of my vics was from Savannah."

The woman on the other end of the line and the country grumbled something. "Cooperation here is still hit and miss. We're talking one hundred percent match, though, severe penile damage inflicted with some sort of razor in the vaginal cavity?"

Sofia pulled out the file she'd printed. "We've recovered the murder weapon, the best word for it is a device from one of our d.b.s." Though she had died horribly, Sofia was still having problems calling Erica Green a victim. "It's a nasty piece of work."

The voice on the other line was accented but not the exact same way that Kim Abernathy's had been. Detective Ellsworth's voice, for that was all that Sofia had to judge her by, was quicker and less fluid. "My case is still open. It's the same M.O. and possibly the same murder weapon; do you think it's the same sick bitch, Detective Curtis?"

Since she couldn't quite recall the last time she'd been off duty, she stretched, "Sofia, please, and I'm not sure. We don't have any suspects yet, and we have two completely different descriptions. One from the survivor, one from a witness; both questionable."

Lashawna mumbled off a curse, "Still plying them with drinks, is she?"

Sofia started turned whole circles, "And Ruffies."

The other woman, united to her through work and yet separated by countless miles and a couple of timezones, grumbled and Sofia could hear keys clacking. "I don't have much, only a questionable sketch, but I'll send you everything."

Sofia opened her mouth to thank the other Detective but was cut off before the first syllable even left her mouth. "And I would appreciate it if you did the same. I would like to be able to tell his grieving mother _something_."

Sofia stopped turning. "I thought you said he survived the attack."

There was a moment of silence. "He survived the attack, and the surgery, but he was twenty three, had his eye on a pretty brunette. His penis was completely severed and mutilated beyond repair and reattachment. He ate a bullet two weeks later."

Sofia closed her eyes, she didn't even try to articulate what she was feeling.

When she opened her eyes, her thoughts could be summed up in three short words. "What the _hell."_She quickly apologized, citing the universal 'inter-squad bullshit' excuse, relayed the PD's fax line along with her extension, then had to hang up. She didn't particularly enjoy hanging up on APD's Lashawna Ellsworth. Besides the point that the woman was helping her investigation, she sounded like a good cop. Sofia didn't really have a choice though. One very smug CSI perp walking a perplexed and pissy supermodel into her bullpen tended to take priority. Especially since she knew that the first jaw dropping would have an encore of one very angry and armed Sara Sidle. She hit her feet and was out of her chair before the phone handset hit it's cradle.

"What the _hell_ is this, Catherine?"

Her eyes darted from the unis, who tried to look inconspicuous, to Catherine and then to Alex Dupree. In the seconds it took Catherine to organize her answer, Sofia's mind played through the information she already had on the woman. She might have, just to satisfy her own curiosity, run a background check on Sara's ex while on hold. She was a woman of substantial means -- she had a cool five million in liquid assets alone -- and a clean record. She had been born in North Dakota to Andrew and Tammy Dupree, had three brothers, a sister, and several nieces, nephews and cousins. She had also spent several years with Sara.

Though she didn't have much to go on there, it was obvious the relationship had ended badly and that Sara was still affected by it. That went a long way, for reasons she refused to contemplate, in Sofia's book. All that aside, she still had absolutely no clue why Catherine had brought her in, especially without talking to her first. The CSI was stepping on toes again, and Sofia wasn't going to let it happen. Not when her feet were in stomping range.

She glared at Catherine Willow, "Well?"

Catherine tossed her hair. "Miss Dupree is a --" She waited until the uniforms shut the interview room door behind Alex, "Our primary suspect."

Sofia let that settle into her brain and tried to fit it into the case. The case, in her mind, was a three dimensional puzzle and she still didn't have all the pieces. She wasn't even sure Alex Dupree belonged in the puzzle. While her immediate reaction would be to question Catherine's sanity, previous experience with the easily angered CSI had taught her better. "What have you got?" She popped a toothpick in her mouth to take her anger out on it. It wasn't Catherine's job to bring in suspects. Not without talking to her first. What had just went down was a direct violation of protocol. Sofia itched to tell Catherine just that, but was more interested in why Catherine had thrown procedure out the window.

Catherine pulled a folder, "Pulled up the site for TAN."

Sofia only glanced down at it, "That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?" Catherine leaned against the nearest desk. Sofia was sure that O'Riley wouldn't mind that at all.

"The main page was enough to get my attention. It's a flash page with a video, starring Alex Dupree, and she was preaching hell fire and brimstone for rapists and basically any and every man."

Sofia quickly thought back to the SNOW meeting she and Sara had dropped in earlier on. "That doesn't maker her a killer, Catherine. VICAP turned up about a dozen other killings."

Catherine checked her hair and shirt in the one way window that allowed them to see into the interview room. "In San Fransisco, Boston, Seattle, New York, Los Angeles and Atlanta." Deeming her appearance acceptable, Catherine turned back around, "What, you think you're the only one who can run a VICAP search?"

Determined not to give in to a pissing match, Sofia shrugged, "I was on the line with Atlanta when you paraded in."

Catherine started walking out of the observation room, and was turning the corner to enter the interview room. "And guess where Miss Dupree's home city is?"

As they entered the interview room, Sofia let an impassive mask fall over her face. She wasn't convinced, but it was a rather large coincidence. Alex turned and watched them come in. She didn't look particularly scared or nervous, but the woman did make her living off of her face and body language. Catherine also noted the other woman's calm, and after she sat down across from her, cocked an eyebrow.

"Not so scared now that Sara isn't here to see the show, huh, Miss Dupree?"

Alex only gave a dainty snort. "Please, this is hardly my first rodeo." She checked her nails, a mirror image of what Catherine had done only a few moments ago. "Besides, I haven't done anything. I know the routine. I'm not stupid and you can't live with Sara and not pick up a few things about forensics and police work."

Author's Note: Where have I been? Running a two year old around the supermarket and trying on funny hats. How about you? Several points to make before I run away and hide in a cave until Spring comes back. I like Atlanta, really I do, I just don't like driving there. Nobody in their right mind looks forward to driving in Atlanta. Also, I squeezed some cross overs into this chapter because with the Writer's Strike on, I figured these charecters could use a little excercise. So, just to make sure there is no confusion, I don't own Benson, Stabler or anyone from Law and Order SVU. There are a couple of other allusions to telivision crime shows in there. Shark, and my summer favorite, The Closer. Surprisingly, I don't own them either. I'm done now.


	29. Chapter XXVIII: Interogation

_Chapter XXVIII_

_Interrogation and Judgment_

She wasn't lying, Sofia immediately knew, but she wasn't telling the whole truth either. Since she had already run Dupree's sheet, she knew the woman was clean. There was something more though. Her fingerprints were on record, but it was noted that she was probably on file because she had traveled to Iraq with a USO tour, three times. Still, there was something missing in her explanation. Sofia didn't doubt that a seven years younger Sara had brought work home with her, but something still tickled at her senses. Something was off. Whether or not Catherine sensed the same thing was debatable. The CSI was much harder to read. Catherine Willows was a good interrogator, but had a reputation for going a little rogue with it. Sofia had no intention of letting Willows go crazy on this particular case.

She sat down beside Catherine and folded her hands on the table. "Hello again, Miss Dupree, we've only met in passing." That was a tactful way of saying 'I saw you lay one on my good friend Sara'.

"I'm Detective Sofia Curtis."

Alex's attention shifted from Catherine to Sofia. "I wish we were meeting again under better circumstances, Detective Curtis." Her words seemed genuine but her voice was still tight and guarded. Of course if Sofia had just been hauled in to a police station with little or no warning, she wouldn't be happy about it either.

"We just have a few questions for you."

Alex angled her head, "This couldn't be done at my hotel? You had to drag me from my breakfast down here in handcuffs?"

Sofia's face didn't betray her thoughts, but she did shoot a quick glance at Catherine. There was more to this story and neither woman was going to tell her.

"Forgive me if I'm not kicking back and talking football, showing you pictures of my nieces and nephews or updating you on my love life."

Sofia's lips quirked for a moment. Despite the circumstances, she was beginning to see what Sara had seen in the woman. Beside her, Catherine scoffed, "Well we're not interested in any of those things. You can tell me though, where you were this past Monday. The day, or more accurately, the night of Dedrick Marsh's death. _And,_" Catherine added, "Wednesday." The night that Preston Abernathy was killed. It was Friday morning, almost afternoon, and Sofia could barely remember where she had been those days. Of course Alex Dupree had, presumably, gotten a little more sleep than she had.

Alex pursed her lips. "I was here and there, I've been on and off this tour, working in cities when I can. Vegas is the first one I've met back up with the tour on since New York. My plane got in-" She patted herself down, "Shit. Where the hell did I put my Blackberry? My manager and his assistant program all that shit in there so I know where I'm supposed to be." She sighed, "Lets see, my plane got in on Monday afternoon-ish from London and I went straight to my hotel and slept until around nine-ish, went to dinner over at the Luxor with Criss, then we went to a few clubs. We got separated and I went back to my room alone."

Catherine didn't bother to note anything down, "Back to your hotel _alone_?" She didn't sound particularly satisfied with that explanation.

Alex, though, only shrugged, "Yes, alone."

Catherine crossed her legs under the table and draped her arm over the back of her chair. "So, you went to your hotel and went to bed all alone, and woke up on Tuesday and did what?"

Across from her, Alex rolled her eyes. "I woke up around normal time, six thirty I guess, went to the VIP gym and used their equipment and pool, took a steam. After that-" Alex tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling, "I had a massage, then went back to my room." Again, she shrugged, "Took care of some business and left out about noon for lunch and shopping with Kim Kardashian. Then I caught a show with a couple of old friends who were having a little vacation here."

Catherine tapped her fingernails against the chair. "Your friends have names?"

Alex raised a brow, "Doesn't everybody?"

Sofia sighed, "I assure you this goes no further than this room."

Alex rolled her eyes once more. "All right, Detective, Nicole and Kieth, and I went to see one of the Cirque shows then retired to a private poker game at their hotel -- Ceaser's -- with a few other friends and before you ask, their names were Hugh and Sandra, they happened to be in town for a thing or something."

Catherine looked at Sofia and then back at Alex. "You're kidding me."

Alex shrugged, "Nope. Draw poker, Kidman fucking wiped me out. After that I called my car and went back to my suite at the Paris, alone."

Catherine still hadn't taken down any notes, "And what time was that?"

Alex only shrugged, "I thought you were interested in Monday and Wednesday."

Sofia, who was still skeptical about the entire thing, smiled, "Then tell us about Wednesday."

Alex blew out a breath. "Woke up around six-ish again, took a call from a designer in Milan while I ran on the treadmill, had breakfast with the tour ladies down in one of the bistros. Went to the college. Gave my speech, took questions, then I --" She paused for just a moment, "I ran into Sara, and you two and Greg." Catherine opened her mouth, but Alex continued, "Sahara told me a little about him earlier, she seems very fond of this Greg guy."

Sofia smiled, "He's a good guy. So what did you do after Sara and I took our leave?"

Alex chuckled, "I left before she shot me." The model pantomimed shooting a gun with her thumb and forefinger at Catherine. "And then I got in touch with some contacts."

Catherine, impatient now, snorted, "Contacts, for what?"

Alex crossed her arms, "That has nothing to do with whatever it is you're investigating me for."

Sofia shrugged, "This is just procedure, cut us a break here."

Alex sighed, "Sara is going to kill me when she finds out I talked to you without a lawyer. I sent out feelers for Sara, okay. Got the address of the Lab where she works and found out when her shift was so I could send her flowers, okay. Are flowers a crime now?"

Catherine, who had heard something about flowers this week, frowned, "And after that, what did you do that evening, because I know you weren't out with _Sahara._"

Alex's eyes went sharp and she sat up board straight. "_You_ don't get to call her that."

Catherine almost grinned, "So where were you, alone again?"

Sofia could see Alex Dupree losing her cool. "No. I went to a club, got drunk and then got laid. I'm sorry I didn't really catch her full name, number and social security name for you. Now are we done?"

Catherine stood, "No, I have plenty of questions left."

Alex's chin went up, "Well, you're going to wait until my damn lawyer gets here to ask them." The super model crossed her arms over her chest and the conversation was essentially over.

Sofia stood up, "Do you need to call your lawyer?"

Alex blinked, "Sara said she would, besides, she has my phone and without that I have no idea what number I would call."

Sofia nodded and then opened the interview room's door. "Catherine?"

The CSI stood up slower, and didn't take her eyes off of Dupree as she stood. They would have left without another word but Catherine's cell phone began to ring.

It was not her work issued cellular phone that chimed off, but her personal one. The way Sofia knew it had to be Catherine's personal line because the LVPD definitely didn't make pop songs standard issue ring tones. Annoyed, Catherine quickly declined the call without even taking the phone out of its holder on the belt. They were still in the door when it went off again. Avril Lavigne's somewhat annoying and oddly catchy 'Girlfriend' played loud enough from the phone to be heard in the hallway. Alex, still in her chair at the table, looked at her and flipped her curls over her shoulder, "You might want to get that, it sounds _important_."

Catherine all but pushed Sofia through the door in front of her and slammed the steel door behind them.

"This is Catherine." She all but barked at her phone and Sofia felt bad for whoever it was on the line.

* * *

It was Lindsey, and that was all Catherine could figure out. "What's the matter. Lindsey?" She could not keep up with the shriek-like rapid pace teenage chatter. A little perturbed, "Lindsey, slow down, what is this all about, you know I'm at work."

"How could you do this to me?!"

Catherine blinked, "What?"

Her daughter took a deep breath. "I just saw you on television. You are ruining my life. I mean how could you!"

Catherine sighed, "Lindsey, I fail to see how-" The sixteen year old interrupted her, "YOU ARRESTED ALEX DUPREE!"

Catherine stopped mid-step. "What?"

Lindsey was on a roll now. "I just saw it. You arrested _the_ top model on, like, the planet. I am now the daughter of the woman who ruined fashion. As if I wasn't enough of a freak, now I am like, a pariah! Plus, you like busted her right in the middle of a date or something! It's all over the internet and TV. It's totally turning viral! Stacey downloaded it from YouTube already!"

Partially ignoring her daughter's wild rant, Catherine went over to Jim Brass's currently empty office and switched on the television he had in it. The mid-day news was running the story. There was a nice shot of her leading the deputies and Alex Dupree out of the Paris and putting her in the car.

"Lindsey," She interrupted the teen's monologue, "I've got to go." She clicked the phone shut and let out a puff of breath as the anchor continued to expound upon the story. "Damn it. Damn it, damn it." The press had hold of it, which meant the Mayor would be calling soon and she was in the direct line of fire.

Behind her, Sofia cleared her throat. "Nice going, Willows." The blonde detective leaned against the door jamb, arms folded over her chest. "You do realize that Dupree can sue the Department, and you, for millions. This is circumstantial as hell and now the press is running with it."

Brass's unmanned phone started to ring and Sofia chuckled, "Great, it's already starting."

Catherine whirled around. "This is not circumstantial. She has something to do with it. I _know_it."

Sofia pushed off the wall. "She's a super model, Catherine, not a homicidal maniac."

Catherine threw her hands up, "I can't believe this. I knew she had Sara eating out of the palm of her hand, but you? Sara, I can believe she would go for her innocent pretty girl in trouble act, but you, Curtis? God, are you that swayed by a _pretty__ face_?"

Sofia took two steps closer to Catherine, they were standing nose to nose. "I don't know where you get off, but get this straight. I am the Detective in charge of this case. You. Work. For. Me. I want your ass in that lab, working the evidence, until you have something to show me. No more of this bullshit. You brought her in because she's involved with TAN? Sara and I got a pamphlet, there are around two million TAN members in around one hundred and eighty chapters nation wide. You want to bring them all in?" She tore a sketch, the sketch that resembled Alex, from her folder. "And this?! You built this. This is completely inadmissible. You are toeing the line of fucking this case, my case completely!" Sofia's voice had rose to the point of shouting and the other detectives had taken notice.

* * *

It only took a minute for Capitan James Brass to make his way through the crowd, with a none too pleased Sara Sidle at his heels. "CURTIS!"

Sofia took a quick step away and looked at her him. "Jim-"

The seasoned Captan held up a hand. "Back to your desk."

Those who claimed he favored Sofia couldn't had backed their claim up at the minute for all the money in the department. The young detective opened her mouth, but was quickly cut off. "Now, Detective."

Still obviously angry, Sofia turned with military precision and stormed off. The gathered men and women opened a path for you as she passed them. Brass looked around him. "Don't you people have something to do?" The assorted plain clothed and uniformed cops quickly made themselves busy.

Brass brushed by Catherine and sat at his desk. Only after he had scrubbed his hand over his head and taken a drink of the stone cold coffee from the mug on his desk, he looked up at Catherine. "Cut Dupree loose."

Catherine looked behind her to catch a glimpse of Sara talking to a Armani-clad man in the hallway before she turned to look at Brass. "You're kidding."

Brass massaged his temple. "No. The Sheriff just called me. The lawyer called me. Gil called me. Cut her loose."

Catherine opened her mouth, but Jim, obviously highly annoyed, cut her off again. "I've heard. Video and connections, a theory. Until you can back that theory up, I don't want to hear any more. I respect you, Catherine, and what you do, but I do not appreciate you turning my department into a three ringed circus. Cut her loose. Lawyer assures me she'll stay in town."

Catherine's face set into a scowl. "But Sara-"

Despite its taste, Brass took another gulp of coffee. "I've already talked to Sara and she knows what's what right now." He held up a hand. "I'm coming to the Crime Lab tonight, at the beginning of shift. I want to hear the case whole and in its entirety then."

He turned to his paperwork. "I'll see you then, and Catherine, I never want to see you screaming at one of _my_people like that again. I mean it."

Capitan Brass waited until the fiery CSI was out of his office and his bullpen before he rose and took his coffee cup outside. He threw the remaining toxic waste into the sink and got a somewhat fresher cup. He paused at Sofia's desk on his way back to his office. "My office." She rose and followed him in and closed the door behind them without being asked. He waited until she sat down and stared her down.

"I'm taking lead on the case."

Sofia jerked up straighter, "What? You said yourself that I could handle it."

He didn't even blink. "That was before I saw you having a junior high bitch fest with Catherine Willows in my office."

Sofia had nothing to say to that. "I let you run with the case because you're sharp, you know the job and have a good head on your shoulders. You _usually_ have good judgment and control." He took a drink and found that the coffee was only slightly better hot. "What the hell happened in here? Jesus, Sofia, I expect this from the knuckle draggers in uniform or even Vartann or Vega, but you?"

She let her hands fall to her lap. "I'm sorry, Sir, it just. She got under my skin. It's on the damn news. Her little bust today has compromised the entire investigation."

Brass folded his hands and his dark eyes went hard as stone, "That does not mean you can cause a scene like that. We have to work with the CSI, you know that. The Sheriff and Mayor are in on this now. Can I rely on you to hold your damn temper or do I need to take you off the case?"

Sofia sighed and pushed her hands through her blonde hair. "I'm fine, but if Catherine goes after Dupree again --"

Much as he had done earlier, Jim Brass held up a hand and cut her off. "Catherine is going to stay away from Alexandra Dupree. You are going to stay away from Alexandra Dupree. Sara is going to stay away from Alexandra Dupree. I don't want anyone in this department looking at a picture of her until we have something more circumstantial than some slide show and Catherine's temper." He took another drink and winced. "Now go home, Fia, you look like hell."

She stood up and turned to leave, but was stopped once more by her C.O.'s voice. "And Curtis, if I ever see you toe to toe and nose to nose with someone like that again, you better have joined the PD boxing team."

She mumbled off another "Yes Sir" and he dismissed her.

Alone in his office, Jim scrubbed his hands over his face again and again. He hadn't enjoyed that at all. Catherine was a solid colleague and a good friend. He had bought Lindsey onsies for God's sake. Sofia was his best investigator and a good woman. One he liked to have on his team and at his back. This case was a royal pain in his ass: if they made it to the end without shedding blood, they would all be lucky. He opened the case file that he had just taken back over and sighed. It was on days like these he wondered if he shouldn't turn in his retirement papers with his shift report.

Author's Note: That was fun.


	30. Chapter XXIX: A Running Conversation

_Chapter XXIX_

_A Running Conversation_

'Go home' It wasn't the dressing down, or that Brass had taken point on the case. It was his tone of voice. Jim was disappointed in her. Damn it. She was disappointed in _herself_. She prided herself on her control, on the tight reins she kept on her temper. She _did no_t lose it, not like that, not practically in the middle of the squad room. She passed a rental Econobox with white knuckles on the wheel, aggressively weaving through traffic. She didn't take her foot out of the floor long enough to think about the several traffic laws she was bending and breaking.

She hated disappointing Jim. He sounded just like her dad when _he'd_ been disappointed in her -- yell at her, give her the silent treatment, bust her back to shit assignments or desk duty. Anything but that defeated tone in their voices and the wounded look in their eyes.

A fresh wave of anger rolled through her when she stopped at one of the interminably long traffic lights on Blue Diamond Road. Catherine had_goaded_ her into it. No wonder Sara fought with the other woman so much. Damn it, she stewed as she made a left turn.

Yes Catherine and her 'pretty face' comment had gotten to her. That didn't excuse her behaviour, though. Still, she had put up with Catherine off and on for a few years now. Why had that comment affected her more than the others? Maybe, Sofia sighed as she made a right onto the street she lived, it was because there was a granule of truth to it somewhere. She didn't want Alex Dupree to be their killer. That would devastate Sara. Why _that_ worried her so much was another one of those things that she had blatantly been ignoring lately. Sofia braked and down-shifted as she pulled into the short driveway in front of her condo. Her thoughts were jumbled in her head and, as she slid her keys out of the car's ignition, she knew that sleep, no matter how much she desperately needed it, was not going to come easily.

After unlocking the knob and the two deadbolts on her door, she slammed it behind her and the crack of wood on wood echoed through her empty condo. That, for some inexplicable reason, made her even madder.

A short ten minutes later, sleep momentarily impossible, she left again. Sofia had changed out of her wrinkled work slacks and button-down in favor of her running clothes. The gray LVPD sweats had been mercilessly hacked short in concession to the heat and her blonde hair was pulled back and out of her face. She didn't have a destination in mind, but seven or so miles would probably be enough to calm down her brain and chase the tension out of her muscles. Then sleep would come, hopefully.

* * *

She let Riley take the lead. The overgrown puppy tugged her along their usual route, happily oblivious to the chaos her life had fallen into. They were jogging down the west side jogging trail through the park and when they got to the other side of the winding mile and a half path, they would make their usual stop across the street for water and coffee before running the mile and a half back up the east side of the trail. After that, there was only four blocks worth of urban sprawl between them and home. Riley was on his leash and she was clad in a faded and almost too small tee-shirt that proudly declared her as property of the Harvard Physics Department , knee length black running shorts and cross trainers. She probably looked like hell, but didn't care.

She counted the steps and ticked off a comforting rhythm in her head as she jogged. Her footfalls were steady and constant and her strides matched the beats in her head. Sweat left a dark V, attesting to her exercise, on her shirt, before it evaporated in the dry desert heat. She let the drumming of her heart and of her feet drown out the frustrating thoughts. She let the green grass and the children playing in the nearby playground cover over the images looping over and over again in her mind's eye. She was trying to, at least. It was hard to outrun yourself, she had learned that a long time ago. The thoughts, the images, the responsibilities, they all eventually caught back up to you.

For now, though, she was content to watch Riley run in front of her, barking and panting at a squirrel who'd jumped across their path. When she was finished with her run, she would go back home and sleep. She knew what would happen then. When she couldn't control or regulate it, her mind would play tricks on her. Those pictures she didn't want to see would come back. Victims and their bloody deaths, memories from a past she didn't want to remember.

At that thought, she let out an grunt and picked up her pace, there was no need to make herself miserable, yet. When the path, familiar from seven or so years of running it, turned to head back through the park, Riley nosed off to the side. There was no formal entrance or exit here, but their numerous trips through the shrubbery and thin layer of skinny trees had worn a path for them. The street the park bordered was a quiet. They jogged along the sidewalk and turned the corner towards busier streets and the strip mall.

She was already reeling Riley in and looping the leash around her wrist to tie him to his usual bench when she saw that it was already occupied. She had, over the course of crossing the street and turning the corner, slowed her brisk jog to a walk and now she slowed down even more. The woman on the bench looked tired and, more so, she looked troubled. Had it been any other person, hell any other co-worker, and Sara might had avoided the gaze. It was, however, Sofia, and the choice was in no way hers. Riley had a long memory for people who petted him and he rushed toward the detective fast enough to jerk the leash almost completely out of her hand.

Sofia welcomed the dog with a smile and open arms. "You guys run the same route everyday, huh?" Since there was a half-empty iced mocha beside Sofia, it was obvious she'd been inside. The barista girl had probably answered that question.

Sara shrugged, "The park's convenient and Riley likes it."

Sofia handed her a still frosty drink from where it had been sitting on the window ledge and the usual bottle of water that went with it. "Girl knew your order."

Sara rolled her eyes and took the collapsible dog dish out of her pocket. Riley didn't even wait for her to stop pouring the water. He just shoved his dark blonde head between the bottle and the bowel and started lapping. "That's how you get in trouble, you know, routine." Sara sat back up straight and took a drink of her coffee. "What, you think I should go jogging with my gun?"

Sofia's answer was quick and serious, "Yes."

Sara took another sip. "So I take it, you don't usually run this way?"

Sofia shrugged, "I didn't set out to run this way, no."

They sat quietly for a minute and then Sara smiled, "I heard about you and Catherine." Sofia gave her a sideways look, and she continued, "It's never a smart thing to do, but it feels great while you're doing it."

Sofia chuckled, "I guess you speak from experience."

Sara nodded, "I believe Jim's exact words to me before we got to the squad room were, 'Don't start trouble with Catherine' and I didn't, but she and I are still going to have_ words_. She pushes at me and I push back, she doesn't usually go after other targets." She shook her head, "She went over the line today."

Beside her, one hand still absently petting Riley, Sofia nodded, "Yanked Dupree right off her breakfast table, or so she said."

Sara spat the straw out of her mouth, mid sip, which caused iced coffee to plop unceremoniously on her shirt. "She barged into the dining room with two deputies and perp walked Alex out the hotel's main entrance. I was left standing there like an idiot." Sara watched Sofia's face and realized that the blonde detective hadn't actually known who Alex had been having breakfast with. She thought over it a moment and made a quick and somewhat, for her at least, out of the ordinary decision. "I'll fill you in while we finish our run in the park."

It was, for her, a huge leap of faith. When Sofia shot her now empty cup into the trash, stood up and took Riley's leash from her hands and smiled, Sara knew she had made the right choice.

The park was charming, she could see why Sara ran through it every day. With Riley tugging her along, sniffing out every possible rodent intruder on the path, it came damn near to Mayberry. The pace was slower, almost a walking speed, then her usual run, but the company was excellent. Eventually, they sat down on the grass overlooking an impromptu soccer game, and Sara began to talk.

By habit or perhaps desire, Sofia committed the scene to memory. The green of the grass and the shadow of the carefully tended trees. The bright sunlight and the distant tinkle of children playing. The dog rolling around, begging for attention.

"I had just made CSI Level One." Sara chuckled, "I was young, a little talented and so unbelievably cocky at times. I met Alex on a crime scene, a dead model at a lingerie show. She was Alex's friend. When it all came down to it, Alex was a --" Sara paused for a moment, "A witness too. I talked with her a lot, helped her through the process of giving a statement and then testifying at the trial. It was a cautious sort of relationship. It started off with her throwing things at me, you know. After the trial, she kept pursuing me, and things just sort of fell into place.

Sofia ran her fingers through the green grass they were currently sitting on. "You two started the relationship throwing things at each other, no wonder it went so bad. I usually don't have to rely on my duck and cover skills until the end."

Sara laughed and shoved her playfully, "Can I finish or are you going to critique me the whole time?"

Sofia settled back on her elbows and ran her fingers across her lips, showing that they were zipped. Watching Sara was no hardship. She was dressed in old sweaty clothes, wasn't wearing an ounce of makeup and her hair had scrunched into wild curls. Sara's dark eyes were wide and somewhat removed from the here and now. It was her voice, though, that was most captivating. It was soulful and melodic as she spoke of past years, long closed cases, and old loves.

_San Fransisco _

_May 1996_

_Hall Of Justice_

_It was raining. She generally loved the rain, it was a relaxing. Unless of course, you were trying to salvage a crime scene during a downpour. It had been raining since around ten on Saturday morning and it hadn't really stopped since. It had poured, pattered, misted and dribbled all the way to now. It was... well, Sara wasn't exactly sure what time it was. She was just coming off of a triple that had stretched into eternity and was so tired she could barely assemble words into coherent sentences. Hell, she could barely link up grunts and grumbles into words, and to think she'd __wanted__ to be a CSI. Though she couldn't see it, she knew fog would be coming in off the Bay, which would make the roadways even more dangerous. It was going to be a nasty night and she was thankful that she had the next day off._

_She had been forced to make due with department issued jumpsuits and work out clothes because she had never made it back to her apartment to change clothes or even do laundry. Despite spending her weekend and part of Monday on a frantic search for a child killer, a smile slipped over her face when she thought of _why_she hadn't gotten to her apartment. She stretched as she walked through the parking garage. It hadn't been so much a why as it had been a who. Alex Dupree had definitely rocked her world. She still couldn't believe she had slept with the woman. Technically the case was over and done with, but still. You weren't really supposed to take your work home with you, or go home with her... it. _

_Ho-boy, it had been great though. She rubbed her hands over her messy hair. Between the current rain and the fact that she had only been able to grab one fast shower in the locker room, her hair had completely rebelled. The swirls, curls and corkscrews were out in full force and frizzy to the max. It didn't matter it was past quitting time on Monday, she was beat and still hadn't been able to get rid of the reek of garbage that came with dumpster diving for evidence off her. She just wanted home and sleep and maybe a quick meal. She would take an endless shower, binge on something with enough calories and fat to kill a horse, turn on the television and let reruns send her into a sleep so deep that the Apocalypse could happen and she wouldn't twitch. _

_Her train of thought, if you could consider repeating shower-food-sleep over and over again a train of thought, came to an abrupt halt and derailment. Leaning against her second-hand black Jeep Wrangler was a perfectly arranged and presented Alexandra Dupree. The woman her pager had pulled her away from early Saturday morning. She looked amazing and Sara was pretty sure she still had finger print powder on her face. Lovely. She threw her now bulging bag into the vehicle's passenger seat and came around, keys in hand. She was a full grown woman and she had been struck mute like gawky junior high student asking a girl to a movie. __"__Hi.__"__ She got an A for effort and a D-minus for originality. _

_Alex, though, smiled at her, dimples winking. __"__You know I had to pretend to be your sister to find out when you were getting off shift.__"_

_Blinking dumbly, Sara stumbled over her own words. __"__I don't even have a sister.__"_

_Alex leaned against the car, her shapely legs crossed at the ankles. __"__Lucky for me the guy I was talking to didn't know that. Is it always like this?__"_

_Sara, unsure of what to do, sunk her hands into the sweat pant's pockets. __"__Is what always like what?__"_

_Alex grinned, __"__You getting paged to some scene in the middle of the night and then working for days straight.__"_

_Sara opened her mouth, closed it and then shrugged, __"__Sometimes, I guess.__"__ Damn it, she had a Masters Degree in Theoretical Physics, yet always the prize winning science nerd clich__é__, she had no idea how to talk to a woman. She was usually better than this. Outside the garage, the rain poured down even harder and it occurred to Sara that she had to put on her rag top unless she wanted to spend the drive to her apartment in water to her knees. She scrubbed her hands across her eyes. __"__I gotta put the top on.__"__ Her words were a bit on the wobbly side, which was probably why no less than four people had offered to drive her home earlier. _

_Working together, she and Alex affixed the tan clothed top to the black metal. While they struggled, the model spoke. __"__You look like shit.__"_

_Sara, who had been snapping the last button down, looked up, __"__That's not what you said last night.__"_

_Alex rolled her eyes, __"__It wasn't last night, and that's not what I meant.__"__ The blonde paused for a moment. __"__I am not letting you drive home.__"_

_Sara pulled herself up to her full height. __"__What?!__"__ Alex opened the driver__'__s side door. __"__You can barely keep your eyes open and traffic is hell out there. Let me drive you home. I promise I'll be on my best behavior.__"_

"Stop," Sofia bumped her shoulder against Sara's again. "if this is going to turn into a low budget porn flick, I don't want to hear it."

Sara laughed, "Hardly. The woman is the world's worst driver. After she got turned around, I made her pull over and I did drive myself home, it took an extra twenty minutes. I had been driving around Frisco since I was twelve years old, it's not even that hard a city to navigate. I thought I was going to have to end things right then and there."

Sofia looked up from rubbing Riley's exposed stomach. "But you didn't."

Sara puffed out a breath, "No. That came a few years later, early 2000, right before I came here."

Sofia watched Sara's posture go rigid as she spoke again, "Things had gotten rocky. I made second grade and her career really took off. There was this case, and well, you know how it goes sometimes."

Sofia nodded, CSIs much like Cops had an eighty percent divorce rate. This, though, was different. Shadows of sadness and a disturbing hollowness had come over Sara's dark eyes. "We put the case to bed, but things hadn't gotten back to normal yet. Riley sent me home early one day, told me to get some sleep. I would have too, but when I got home, my bed was very occupied."

Sofia winced and hissed through her teeth. "Bitch."

Sara chuckled, "Who, Alex, or the redhead pastry chef she was making time with?"

Sofia scowled, "Both."

Sara grinned, "Well that pretty much did it for me. I walked out, and Grissom more or less called me the next day."

They sat quietly for a minute, and watched the soccer game end with a less than spectacular goal. Finally, Sofia asked the question that they both knew was coming. "Do you think she's our woman, cheating on you aside?"

Sara looked directly into Sofia's eyes. "She might have gotten caught up in TAN's aggressive attitude, but kill? No, Alex couldn't kill anyone. She cries at the end of sad movies and swerves to avoid animals in the road. She didn't do that to those men."

Sofia hoped not, for Sara's sake more than anything. They started to get up and since Sofia got to her feet first. She offered Sara a friendly hand up. Looking at the other woman, she questioned Alex Dupree's sanity. Sara Sidle was smart, she had a good sense of humor, she was loyal to a fault, passionate and dedicated about and to her work and yes, she was beautiful. Why on Earth would anyone throw such a woman aside? If she -- Sofia stopped that train of thought, and the bite of jealousy that went with it, cold in her head and let Sara's hand, that she had been holding a little too long after the brunette had gotten to her feet, go. She gave Riley one last pat and hoped that Sara hadn't noticed her unintentional faux pas.

"Meeting at the lab at the beginning of shift tonight."

Sara nodded, "Since I owe you one, I'll steal a cup of Greg's Blue Hawaiian for you."

Sofia smiled and watched Sara and Riley start to jog away. "I'm holding you to that, Sidle." She watched then until the path curved away from the playing fields. "I'm in trouble." She knew that talking to oneself wasn't generally considered normal, neither was answering oneself, but today she didn't have to worry about that. She had no idea what the reply would be anyway. It was going to be a long run home.

Author's Note: It's laundry day and I keep finding tee-shirts I gave up for lost months ago. Don't act like it's never happened to you.


	31. Chapter XXX: The Lines Are Drawn

_Chapter XXX_

_The Lines Are Drawn_

The Las Vegas Crime Lab's Graveyard Crew was the best of the best. They, Grissom and his CSIs, were the high performance muscle car of the Forensics world. They had worked together for years and were one big and happy family. Anyone who believed that, Wendy Simms knew, hadn't spent much time around the team. Like the other labrats, she had a unique point of view of the team. They worked with the CSIs, but because they weren't field criminalists, they were somewhat removed from the CSIs. It was easier to observe them from outside the clique. Because they saw all the players without bias. It was also much easier for a lab rat to see trouble brewing. Wendy knew, almost as soon as she'd walked into the building, that they were in for a rough night. The tension was so thick in the air, it was like trying to breath molasses. It was nights like these, when the invisible battle lines were drawn, that she began to doubt her ambition to follow in Greg Sanders' footsteps. Tonight, she strongly suspected that she would have a front row seat for whatever shit was about to rain down on them. She not only had to update everyone on DNA and Trace -- Hodges was out sick with a summer flu -- she and Greg also had to report on their re-enactment. She technically didn't have to be there for that, but Greg said it would help her get a feel for field work.

Because she had to stop by the Trace and DNA labs on her way, she was the last to arrive at the conference room. When she saw the scene through the glass wall, she had an overwhelming urge to hand everything off to Greg and get the hell out of Dodge. The lines had already been drawn. Captain Brass was at the foot of the short table and Grissom was at the head. Catherine, predictably, sat at Grissom's right hand and Detective Curtis, Sofia, sat at Brass's. The way the other CSIs had fallen in said it all. Sara the magnetic pole, opposite of Catherine, was seated on the opposite side of the table from Catherine. The fact that she was sitting beside Sofia Curtis did not escape Wendy's attention. Warrick, as he always did, sat beside Catherine, and Greg, loyal to a fault, was beside Sara. Nick Stokes, who had the severe misfortune to be the team's usual swing vote, had taken a seat beside Warrick. That left only one chair for her, and no choice. The chair had obviously been dragged in from another room and it stuck out like a sore thumb beside Greg. She sat down and hoped for the best.

Papers were still being rustled through and coffee were consumed. Though she had technically been late, the meeting hadn't started yet. That gave her a scant few extra minutes to get a feel for the room. Gil Grissom, her boss and the universally recognized leader of the team, looked completely cool and collected. If he knew he was currently sitting in the middle of hurricane, he didn't show it. His team had split over the case and he would decide which side would be the dominant one. That was a lot of pressure, but the etymologist wasn't even sweating. If she hadn't seen him do so before, she would wonder if Grissom even had sweat glands. Catherine, on the other hand, looked agitated, and that was never good. She was also dressed in what was generally considered court attire. Steel blue power suit and a starch white shirt, her hair and makeup done flawlessly, and it made her look like a corporate attorney that was about to go in for the kill.

The other two women, not counting herself, in the room, were also dressed severely. Wendy would go as far to say puritanically. Sara and Sofia both wore unrelieved black. Sofia's sleeves were rolled to a three quarters length and her blonde hair was pulled back. She was ready for a fight, her second of the day with Catherine if the gossip was on the mark. Sara, on the other hand, was wearing a cut jacket over her blouse. She needed cover, needed the professional shield and probably wanted the extra pockets to stash her ever present antacid tablets in. She wondered if they'd planned their Twinkie wardrobes because their grim expressions were twins too. Beside her, Greg shifted, fidgeted, uncomfortably. He, Nick and Warrick were all dressed in their own takes on office casual, which was generally the rule around the lab rather than the exception. Captain Brass, who she had less experience with, was harder to read, but there was no mistaking the seriousness on his face for anything else. It didn't take a field-hardened and jaded CSI to know that this meeting wasn't going to go well.

After a moment, Grissom took off his reading glasses and looked up from whatever file he'd been poring over. "Okay, it looks like we're all here. Jim, would you like to start us off?"

The Captain scowled. "Well I've been fielding calls all day long. The press has a hold of the case, and they're sensationalizing it. Sports superstars, models and dead men make for a big story. Our duly elected officials want to make sure that Vegas and the LVPD doesn't come out looking like dupes on CNN. Again." There were nods all around the table. Brass shrugged, "Sheriff says this case is priority, at least until all the brou-ha-ha dies down." He looked to his right, "Sofia."

Wendy watched Sofia start to speak. The blonde's voice was steady, and she didn't bother to look at her files. "What started out as a double at the Playground." Her winter blue eyes flicked in Catherine's direction, but she continued without a hitch. "Has lead us to something much bigger. Michael Gozton, Wen-Hsiung Yu, John Conroy, Mathew Troy, Joseph Rafferty, Dustin Malone, Travis Dyler, Ryan Ingram, Jalil Raheem, Rocco Masaccio, Diego Galeno, Peter Callahan" Sofia paused, "All dead, from various cities around the country. "There were also a few survivors, Seth McGrew, Jonathon Garret, Michael Conner and there was Jason White from Atlanta. He committed suicide less than a month after his attack. Then there is our body count: Stewart Finnigan, Dedrick Marsh and Preston Abernathy. Markus Bordwine came forward as a survivor. Our only _solid_ lead so far was Erica Green; she was strangled to death by Finnigan. The only link between all of their deaths is the COD, which was directly or indirectly connected to the device we removed from Erica Green." Sofia looked to her right, "Greg?"

Greg stood up, "Can we get the lights for this one?"

Nick, closest to the switch on the wall, rolled back in his chair and, with a lazy swing of his arm, turned off the overhead lights.

While Greg started up the slide show, the blank white screen cast an eerie light over the rest of them. Wendy could clearly see Catherine glaring at Sofia, and Sara staring off into some unfathomable space just above Warrick's left shoulder. Grissom turned around just in time for the first image to come up. It was a standard laid out photo of the device that had been removed from Erica Green. It was the first time Wendy had seen it and she automatically crossed her legs. Though Greg was speaking, the faint rustle of cloth told her that she wasn't the only one. She made herself look at it. The device, as the team had dubbed it, looked completely mundane. If she didn't know any better, she would have shrugged and commented that she had bigger and better in her nightstand at home. She did know better, though, and held her tongue while Greg told everyone what he had dug up on the device.

"The shell is made of heavy rubbery latex, and Trace found no significant or identifying abnormalities or specialties. "There was, however, something interesting in the tip." There was an almost silent click and a new, closely zoomed and cropped picture appeared. "The head had a-"

He paused, as if he wasn't exactly sure what to say, and Catherine chuckled, "It looks like it was ribbed for her pleasure."

Greg snapped his fingers and pointed at the older CSI, "Exactamundo. So, I thought that might lead us to a producer."

Nick, voice steady considering he was probably grinning like a fool in the dark, spoke up. "We don't have a database for _those_, Greggo."

Silhouetted in the projection, Greg nodded, "I know. So I went straight to the horse's mouth, so to speak. I went to five different adult novelty and entertainment establishments to track down a matching model."

Wendy couldn't tell, but she'd bet big money that Greg was blushing; poor guy. "I hit pay dirt at my last stop, Babylon Adult Entertainment Center, which was actually not completely skeezy."

Grissom cleared his throat and Greg clicked over to a new picture. It was no longer identical to their murder weapon, but it was undoubtedly similar. "The Lady Killer, no joke that is its name, is distributed in thirteen different countries by over a million stores, ten thousand of them are in the US alone. Not to mention they are a bestseller at Ladies' parties and several thousand websites."

Warrick let out a puff of breath, "So it's basically going to be impossible to trace."

Greg shrugged and a new picture came up. This picture was of the device's twisted inner workings. Wendy squeezed her legs together and decided that she may never be able to use tampons again.

"The razors," Greg continued in a slightly strained tone, "are straight, plain razors that can be bought in any hardware store. I'm still tracking down the company, but hold out little hope. I'm still figuring out what the barb is. I can tell you that it's a low grade stainless steel that is used in more items than you can shake a stick at. The same goes for the smaller hook-like barbs." Another picture came up, "This, though, is something interesting. See the bubbling around the base of the razors, hooks, and especially the barb. The rubber-latex was melted, then the blade pressed down into the less-than-an-inch thick latex, and then resealed on the inside with a mixture of liquid latex and super glue. The outside was covered over with a condom that was covered again with a clear coat of liquid latex. She finished off with a piece of thin piece of latex that was probably scraped off of the shaft, over the shell's entrance." Greg clicked the wireless controller again and a split picture, the devices outer shell on the left and the inside on the right, was displayed. "I don't think she bought this thing anywhere, I think she made it herself." That revelation sent murmurs around the table, Nick hit the lights, and Greg reclaimed his seat.

For a moment, Wendy thought she would go next, but Nick cleared his throat. "I ran with the ring idea. Balfour was pretty cooperative, but made it clear that they wouldn't give us any specific customer information without a warrant. The bar cams gave us a still, and if I'd known we were going to run a slide show, I would have thrown it in."

He handed a glossy print to Warrick. "So, everyone can take a low-tech look for a minute. Anyway, the horse head underneath the stone and the M named High School wasn't much to go on, but it did narrow it down to eight thousand, two hundred and four schools: public, private and ecclesiastical." No one seemed particularly enthused about the information. Forget looking for a needle in a haystack, they were looking for a needle in a hay silo.

Catherine stood up and Wendy could immediately feel the room's energy go up a notch. The feather and welter weights had gone, now it was time for the main event. Somehow her information, about trace, DNA and the re-enactment had gotten shuffled to the side. Catherine went to the laptop that was wirelessly connected to the ceiling projector, slipped on her reading glasses and typed something in. Wendy watched, with curiosity, while the screen flashed to the lab's default desktop and then the Internet browser. They watched Catherine type in the address, and Wendy could all but hear Sara and Sofia grind their respective molars into dust as she did.

The browser icon revolved and the screen changed from white to black. The black screen had an obvious media window that was loading something and, in the bottom corner of the web site's page, there was a note about needing the newest update to flash player to see the video. Thanks to the Lab's high-speed network, the video loaded in seconds.

_The screen flickered and then returned to a velvety black. One would have thought something had malfunctioned but in the center of the window, a flame flickered to life. _

_"Every seven seconds a girl or woman is raped." The unseen voice was immediately identified by half of the room as that of Alexandra Dupree. More lights, small tea lights, joined the first one. They were floating in a bathtub. "Every fifteen seconds, a child's innocence is molested and raped." More tea lights, now hundreds of them, appeared floating in a swimming pool. "On average, only twenty percent of reported rapes are solved." The camera zoomed in on the golden glow of the tea lights as Alex's words flowed from the screen. When she'd finished there were tea lights floating over the entire expanse of the Reflecting Pool in Washington DC. "There are two thousand rapists released from jail every day, and seven out of ten of all rapists rape again and again and again." Now the tea lights floated on a vast ocean, there were countless little lights on a sea of liquid black. The lights all blurred into one golden glow and from that a face slowly appeared. _

Wendy would have been lying through her teeth if she said she didn't recognize the face. Alexandra Dupree was the perfect blonde supermodel she'd hated all the way through college and beyond. Since she knew that there was _something _going on and it was all revolving around Dupree, she looked not at the screen as the woman continued to speak, but at the CSIs. She wasn't the only one who wasn't giving their full attention to the video. Almost everyone was glancing from the screen to Sara and back again, with a few cautious glances at Catherine, who was shooting poison-tipped darts at Sara with her eyes, thrown in for good measure. For herself, Sara's full attention was on the screen. Her face was cast in strange dappled splashes of light and color from the screen. There was no discernible emotion Wendy could pinpoint, but there was there was enough of whatever the emotional mix was to weigh heavily upon the brunette's mind.

The others were much easier to read. Grissom, when he glanced at Sara, looked a little on the sad side of stoic. Nick, Warrick and Greg looked somewhat in awe of Sara. Either because they had never considered the fact that she might be bisexual or hadn't thought she would date a model. Wendy rolled her eyes in the darkness. Anyone who witnessed Catherine and Sara fight and thought both of them were without a doubt one-hundred percent straight, needed glasses. Speaking of Catherine, she looked positively pissed. Pissed at Dupree, pissed at Sara and pissed at Sofia. She didn't envy either of the three women. Wendy gave one more quick glance at Sofia. The usually organized, compartmentalized and seemingly two steps ahead Detective looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

Wendy's attention returned to the projected video, but she filed away the scene in her head. The varied and somewhat puzzling reactions of the team.

_Alexandra Dupree's face glowed as she spoke of statistics and rapists run rampant. It was almost melodic. Then her eyes narrowed and her brows drew together. "Numbers, statistics, that's what women have become. Victims." _

_The screen flashed to a young girl, she couldn't have been more than eight She was holding one of the small tea light candles in her cupped hands. .Though the picture had gone stark black and white, there was no mistaking the hollow look in the little girl's eyes. She stared directly at the camera, "I was raped." _

_In the blink of an eye, a woman with poker strait hair and glasses appeared. The small candle in her hand made a glare in her glasses, she was in her mid thirties. "I was raped." _

_Another beat and an old woman, well into her sixties, took the screen. "I was raped." _

_The faces, all races, creed and ages, continued to appear on screen. After several moments, Alexandra Dupree was on screen again, a tiny candle in her hands. "I was raped." The camera panned back, revealing the model's full body and the black lightened so the room behind her was visible. It was a bustling bullpen, realistic enough to be in any city's working precinct. Alex Dupree, in complete and full Technicolor, walked among the perps and cops and sat on a desk, completely comfortable and visible against the dingy black and white scene around her. "Take Back the Night is a wonderful idea. The thing is, we shouldn't have to lose it in the first place. Cops can only take things so far. Even if every single cop was on the street all the time, it wouldn't make a difference. Your husbands and boyfriends can only do so much. We, as women, have to take a stand. We have to_Take Action Now. _Rapists and murderers are out there. Men who don't give a damn that you're a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter, a student, a doctor or even," She smirked slightly, " a model. Rape isn't about sex, it's about power. A man taking your power away from you."_

_The scene slowly changed as Alex walked. She was dressed in slacks, her wild mane of hair was pulled up and back. She looked perfectly normal, you had to look twice to realize she'd been the candle wielding goddess of earlier. __"__Men__"__ There was an extra splash of venom oozing out of the word, __"__can be many things, including predators of the worst kind.__"__ She stood up and looked around,__"__If you give your trust too easily, you could end up here or-__"__ The scene abruptly changed and Alex Dupree was laying on a coroner's slab. Her face was pale and her hair lifeless under her. __"__Or here.__"__ The camera slowly panned out to show that she was obviously naked under the ME's crisp white sheet. _

_The scene changed again and Alex Dupree was on a crowded city street. __"__We have to take action. Women have to learn to recognize the signs of a bad situation before it goes too far. We have to not only be able to defend ourselves, but be able to go on the offensive.__"__ Mug shots, hundred of them flashed across the scene. Some were of large leering men that gave off an air of danger and menace, others were middle class and average, completely unremarkable. They were all, as Alex narrated, rapists. __"__These monsters don't stop and think of us as people, as women, and we should think of them the same. Men can't be just men, they're a threat and they need to know.__"_

_The scene changed again and behind Alex's front and center place there were countless women. __"__That we are powerful, pissed off and not afraid anymore. We aren't weak and we're not going to let them win. We will fight them, we will scar them and if they come to close we will _rip their dicks off. _We're not just some bitch, some slut, some whore, some hold to fuck. We are women and all of our holes are lined with teeth so bring it the hell on.__"__ The camera zoomed in on her hard as stone eyes. When it panned back, she was standing on the ocean of candles, __"__I was raped, but I'm not a victim anymore. Take Action Now.__"__ For a second the camera paused on her face right behind the tiny flame and with a puff of breath she blew out the flame. The screen went dark and the grey smoke floated for a moment later. The bold white letter T-A-N glowed behind the dissipating smoke and the video ended._

The video ended and the site began to automatically load up. A site menu comprised of the far left-hand side and there were frames that made up the varied rest of the page. There was also a log-in box that made it obvious that members had access to something beyond what a normal visitor did. Despite those facts, no one was overly interested in the website. All attention was, once again, on Catherine. Catherine, though, was not the first to speak.

It was Sara, calm and cool,"Since when does being a feminist make someone a serial killer?" Her tone was almost conversational, but the barb was obviously aimed at Catherine.

To Wendy's, and more likely the entire room's surprise, Catherine let the comment slide without sparking off an argument. "Serial Killer? It looks more like a brainwashing video. A cult of girls being taught that every man on the street is out to rape them right there in broad daylight."

Eyes quickly darted from Catherine to Sara. The brunette CSI blinked, "Cult? You think Alex started a cult?"

Both women were standing now, with the table between them and several colleagues ready to pull them apart if need be. "That sure as hell didn't sound like she was recruiting for the Girl Scouts."

Nick turned the lights on and everyone could see the splotches of red climbing up Sara's neck and into her cheeks. Her eyes were narrowed and her brows furrowed. "Alex can barely find both of her shoes in the morning. She may be involved in this _group_, but she isn't encouraging girls to turn into serial killers."

Catherine, her muscles tense and her temper obviously barely in check, stared Sara down. "We don't have any evidence that the same person killed Dedrick Marsh and Preston Abernathy."

Sara flipped open a file. "Finger prints came back, and if you weren't too busy butting into my personal life, you would have seen that we have a match from the candle wax at the Abernathy scene and the door knob at the Marsh scene. This killer is obviously accelerating, and becoming more viscous. If we don't stop her she will kill again and soon."

Catherine looked at the screen. "We will fight them, we will scar them and if they come too close we will rip their dicks off. We're not just some bitch, some slut, some whore, some hold to fuck. We are women and all of our holes are lined with teeth so bring it the hell on." She turned back to look at Sara. "What, do you think she's just blowing smoke? That is the M.O. In every one of these cases, and I looked at this so-called tour she's been on. Every city there's been a series of attacks in, she's been there. Dupree has a hell of a lot of coincidences to explain away and I don't think she can do it."

Grissom, obviously done listening to the arguments, held up a hand. "Are Miss Dupree's prints in AFIS?"

Sara nodded, "I put them there myself. There's no match and we have nothing to hold her on."

The argument continued, but Wendy's attention was on one of the photos that had been passed around. Preston Abernathy at the crime scene. It was a side view and she squinted at it. She gave Greg a soft tap in the ribs with her elbow to get his attention. She whispered her question and he handed her a file. She compared the picture to the personal affects list and looked between the two. She elbowed him again and he reluctantly turned, again, and showed him the picture, she'd used a felt tip marker to circle what she'd seen. A quick back and forth glance from the picture to the list and he nodded at her.

"Um guys." Wendy only got a half a seconds worth of notice. "I hate to break up the love fest, but--" She pushed the picture and the list towards the center of the table, "Does anyone know what happened to Preston Abernathy's wedding ring?"

The picture, laid on the table and it took a close look, but it was as visible as blood spatter on a white sheet. There was a tan line on the third finger of his left hand. His wedding band was missing and it had not been recovered.

Author's Note: If there is anything more wrong then GSR, it's this Wendy/Hodges horror-fest the writers have been dancing around. I like Wendy, and now that Sara and Sofia are gone off the show, we need someone to keep things at the lab in line.


	32. Chapter XXXI: Good Morning Las Vegas!

Chapter XXXI

Good Morning Las Vegas!

"I can't believe I let myself be conned into this." Sara pushed her sunglasses up against the bridge of her nose for the fifth time since Sofia had picked her up at the Crime Lab, and crossed her arms over her chest.

Sofia smirked as she glanced at the other woman from the corner of her eye. Sara's expression bordered on petulant. "It could be worse."

Sara sighed; she knew that. After much debate -- a bar brawl with words as opposed to fists, and glares instead of curses -- it had been decided that they would talk to Alex again, in a more informal manner until things were clearer. That hadn't made Catherine very happy. Catherine, who was meeting them presumably right outside Dupree's suite, had been ready to rouse a judge and get a warrant. Grissom had, almost reluctantly, decided that Sofia's low key, take the mountain to Mohammed plan was the better one. Sara had been sent along to, as a sort of ambassador of goodwill, and she wasn't particularly pleased about that. Sofia knew it was a raw spot for her. Unless they proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that Alex was innocent, Sara was eyes-only. She couldn't handle, sign off on any evidence, or run with theories. She was an invisible investigator as far as this case went. Sofia knew Sara was feeling burnt by that. Since the case was now focusing on her ex, the burn was probably somewhere between the third and fourth degree.

Sofia had brought her coffee -- a good memory for details had allowed her to get the brew exactly the way Sara liked it -- and that had earned a smile. She knew that the CSIs, much like she and Jim, had spent the shift chasing down the ring lead that Wendy Simms had uncovered. They were one confirmed kill away from having a bona fide serial killer on their hands -- classification wise, anyway. Sofia, like Sara, was already certain that they had a serial killer; she didn't need another kill to know that. The woman was taking rings from the men she killed as trophies. Abernathy's wedding ring and a State Championship ring from Marsh. Female serial killers were rare, but not unheard of. The abnormality of the case made it all the tougher. The press was already going wild over it. They'd been forced to sneak around through one of the side entrenches to avoid the paparazzi.

The elevator continued it's long climb up the sky-scraping hotel and Sofia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "So did you have to do that allot back in the day?"

Sara blinked, "Do what?"

They had a few more floors left until the coveted penthouse level. Sofia shrugged, "Avoiding or elbowing through crowds of paparazzi, rubbing elbows with movie stars and mega millionaires. Riding in limos and flying in private jets. That sort of thing."

Sara chuckled, "No. No, I was a strictly behind the scenes girlfriend. Most, almost all, of my friends were with the SFPD. I did my best to stay out of the glitzy part of Alex's life. It was just simpler that way."

The conversation grew stilted again, the gentle hum of the elevator and the monotonous pings of the piped-in muzak failed miserably at defeating the silence.

Jim had cleared it with the lawyer and they had called ahead. It felt slightly strange, interviewing a potential homicide suspect in the comfort of her own suite. Sofia generally preferred her own space at the PD where she was comfortable and completely in control of the situation. Though, if she felt strange, she couldn't imagine what Sara was going through.

The elevator finally dinged and the doors slid open without even a squeak. Sara stepped out first, the picture of professionalism, her dark suit still crisp and her sunglasses still firmly on.

She shattered the image by smirking, "Top floor, Shoes, Ex Girlfriends and Coworkers who'd rather shoot me than say 'Hi'."

Sofia matched her smirk and tried desperately to control the very unprofessional chuckle that climbed up her throat. Maybe Sara was more prepared to deal with this situation than Sofia had given her credit for.

* * *

When they rounded the corner and saw Catherine standing with her kit in hand and a scowl on her face, Sofia had to smother her laugh into a cough. Sara glanced at her and Sofia saw a thin brow arch coolly under sunglasses. Oh, she was good. Sara was laying the gloss on thick and heavy and the shine looked good on her. Sofia especially liked Catherine's sour half smile when Sara took off her glasses and positively chirped off, "Good Morning."

Sara rolled her neck and let out a grunt when a round of firecracker-like pops went off in her neck. She went ahead and popped her knuckles, rolled her shoulders and shook out her legs, as if she was about to run a triathlon instead of talk to a suspect. Of course, she had spent the night psyching herself up like a triathalete. A mental one, at least. She was very glad she had chosen her wardrobe from the left side of her closet. She looked cool, crisp and completely professional. That was how she was going to handle this. She was a professional and what she had with Alex was long over, dead, buried and had disintegrated into dust. This was just like any other case, she had to solve it, then go home to her dog. As Greg would say, 'Badda-bing, badda-boom, and we're done."

She had to keep Greg away from Mob movies, or at the very least, start tuning him out when he started talking about Old Vegas.

"All right," She looked from Catherine to Sofia, " Alex will not be in a good mood about this, not at all. She is unpredictable; she more or less thinks that being predictable is a sin." Sara shook her head; stability was something that they had never quite seen eye-to-eye on. "She could have her lawyer, a team of lawyers or none at all, I honestly don't know." Sara paused, but before Catherine could butt in, she picked up again, "I_ can _tell you that her assistant will be there, she keeps Alex's schedule. Her agent, God help us, might be in there too. Alex usually carries three to five bags, but don't expect them to be in any sort of order."

Sara sighed, "She's smarter then she looks, don't underestimate her. She knows her rights and what we'll be looking for and what questions we'll be asking." She slid her hands in her pockets and shrugged, signalling that she was done.

Catherine snorted, "Brought a lot of work home with you back then, huh? Guess you haven't changed that much. Did she let you keep the scanner on for _mood music_?"

Sara knew very well that the older CSI was baiting her. She didn't dignify the comment with an answer. Instead she knocked on the door.

The door opened and her neutral mask momentarily slipped. It was not Alex at the door, it was much worse. The man at the door was wearing a conservatively cut Armani suit, his hair was gelled into place firmly enough that Hurricane-force winds wouldn't disturb it. He had manicured hands, whitened teeth and a scowl that made his underlings duck and cover. Tristian Andros Incorporated, Agents to the Stars.

Andros had built the firm, literally from the ground up. Managing careers, brokering deals, handling temper tantrums, and spinning the worst possible kind of publicity into PR gold, Andros was a God amongst peons in Los Angeles, New York and every celeb get-away in between. His firm of twelve highly trained ass kissers held the reigns on dozens of Hollywood's hunks and starlets, for an incredible fee, of course. Tristian only handled the crème de la crème. If you weren't on the A List, word was he wouldn't even see you personally. Sara had hated him from the first day they had met. Tristian hadn't particularly liked her either. She had never been, to quote Tristian, good for Alex's image. Anything that wasn't good for Alex's image wasn't good for his wallet. If there was anything, besides himself, that Tristian loved, it was his bank account.

When she had been Alex's girlfriend, he had at least been passably civil, she could expect much less than that now. She squared her chin and stared him dead in the eyes, like one would do a dog to establish dominance.

He glared right back at her, "Sidle."

His reception was positively glacial, and Sara momentarily wondered if he was Catherine's long lost twin brother.

Sara let it roll off her back, "Official business, Mr. Andros, this is Detective Curtis and CSI Willows with the LVPD."

He nodded and stepped back. "Ms. Dupree's lawyer is a few rooms down and if I don't like what I hear I won't hesitate to bring him up here."

Sara almost wished he would; she liked Alex's long-time lawyer. She didn't voice her opinion, though, and quietly followed Andros into the penthouse suite.

The carpet was thick, plush, and the low heel of the boot she had polished the evening before sank into it. The main room's centerpiece was the wall of windows that looked out over Freemont Street and that was where Alex was, looking out over the bustling city bellow with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. Her feet were bare and her faded jeans were casual. The shimmering gold halter-top she wore looked more suited to a late night of clubbing than an interrogation. Without her turning around, Sara knew that her makeup was flawless and, though her hair was tied in a lose ponytail, it too would be perfect. Sara knew very well that despite the time, Alex had already been up for hours, preparing herself. The casual appearance, the coffee and her positioning were all just window dressing. She wasn't fooled one bit.

The woman sitting on one of the nearby leather couches seemed largely unimpressed by the company: the view or the visitors. She was speaking in rapid Italian, presumably to whomever she was talking to via her bluetooth earpiece, typing on a Mac Notebook, and glancing at several sheets of paper spread out around her. Sara didn't recognize the young woman -- it was hard to recognize anyone when their face was buried in a laptop computer -- but knew exactly who she was, Alex's personal assistant. Alex hadn't employed an assistant at first, but as her career took off, she had been swamped with details, and details were something that Alex didn't handle very well. Sara had tried to help, for a while, but outside of giving up her career, she wouldn't have been much help.

Her Italian skills were minimal, but she recognized the woman's sign-off "Ciao" and knew the call was over. After a few more fast key clacks, the woman looked up, and Sara felt a tickle at the back of her brain. The woman's hair was short, jet black and razor cut; she wore all black, her lip was pierced and Sara was on the verge of putting a half-remembered name with a fuzzy face in her head.

"Sara."

Sara blinked, but before she could say a word, the young assistant was on her feet. "You probably don't remember me." Now that she could see the woman's whole face, she could see a resemblance. "I'm Jenica, Piper's younger sister." She held out a hand to shake and Sara finally made the connection. Piper had been the name of Alex's assistant when they'd parted ways. It was actual interest, and fond memories, that had Sara asking after Piper, instead of the expected niceties.

"She married David Sinclair -- you remember David? -- and is busy raising four children, I have pictures." Alex's voice sounded almost kind, but it was a well honed barb. It was a subtle reminder of her past. Of course she remembered David, she'd introduced Piper, Alex's assistant, to David, a CSI with the SFPD, at a barbecue. He'd been a great friend to her.

Alex, finished off the statement with a sigh and empty cup dangling from her hand, walked towards them. "Jenica, please pull up my schedule for the last year and print it out for them." Alex sat on the couch opposite of them, crossed her legs and laid her arms across the top of the couch.

"Sit, please, let's be civilized _this_ time. They lined themselves up with the glass coffee table between them. Alex sat between Jenica and Andros. Sofia sat across from Andros and Catherine was across from Jenica, who was coaxing her computer to transmit the needed pages to the printer wirelessly. There was a space that gave more than enough room for her between the two women. Sitting between Catherine and Sofia, across from Alex, Sara opted to stand behind the couch. The high back hit her just above the navel, no one could see her wring her hands or tap her feet.

Alex clapped her hands together, "Okay, so let's get started. I remember how these things go. Questions, searches, spending all your time with your nose down a microscope. Taking DNA samples, dusting for prints, becoming obsessed with solving a case." She was looking straight at her, but Sara refused to flinch. It was an argument they'd had several times towards the end.

On the couch, Sofia rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. She probably felt like she had walked in on a lover's spat. If Catherine felt the same, she didn't show it. "We saw your little Public Service Announcement on Ms. Dupree. I have to admit, it was flashy, Super Bowl worthy even, if you can get past the sociopathic and frankly disgusting parts. Far be it from me to violate your freedom of speech, but you show that to impressionable girls and that's just _sick_."

Sofia quickly jumped in, "What she means, Ms. Dupree, is that there are several unhappy circumstances that we need you to explain."

Alex shrugged, "I am an open book for you, ladies. Anything I can do to help out Las Vegas's _finest_."

Sara rolled her eyes, "Cut the act, Alex, this is serious."

Beside the supermodel, Andros scoffed. "Alexandra's in trouble and Sara Sidle is right in the middle, agging it on. God, why am I not surprised? It's a viscous cycle and it never changes."

Alex frowned at the agent, "Tristian, behave."

More serious now, Alex stared down Catherine. "Rape isn't pretty, Ms. Willows, I know you know that. I'm working to put an end to it any way I can. Better education, stronger laws and harsher punishments. The best way to beat rapists is to prevent the rape in the first place."

Catherine scowled, "Second hand rape stories from Sara and numbers don't mean jack coming from you." Sara let out a hiss of breathe, Catherine had gone and done it now.

Alex's eyes, a predatory gold, flashed. "And working rape cases doesn't mean you know shit about being raped. You obviously got your job by fucking someone, Ms. Willows, because it couldn't have been ability. My case was well documented and covered by the press. I was raped."

Author's Note: And the story resumes after a dibilitating battle with the flu. More on Catherine and her rage later.


	33. Chapter XXXII: Party Like It's 1996

_Chapter XXXII_

_Party Like It's 1996_

_San Francisco_

_1996_

"_Are you out of your mind?__"__ Manny, her piece of shit agent's assistant, all but slammed her against the wall in the closet they called her dressing room. __"__You just assaulted a cop.__"_

_She pushed him away, __"__She said she was with the fucking forensics department, whatever the hell that means, and I didn't assault her, I threw something at her.__"_

_The small bald man threw his hands up, __"__What, you think those cops rushed you because they're allergic to hairspray? That was assault!__"_

_She sat down and picked up a bottle of tester lotion she'd gotten at one of the many shoots Hugh -- Hugh Spalding was her fucking bastard agent -- had her running back and forth to. She rubbed the coconut-scented lotion across her hands and then began rubbing into her legs. __"__Whatever. It doesn't matter. Some fucking lowlife asshole scum killed Anastia. She was twenty; she had just turned fucking twenty years old, Manny. Fuck! What the fuck am I supposed to tell her family? I was supposed to, I don't know, fucking look after her? We have an apartment together. She was fucking alive this morning. Damn it, she was alive and healthy and fine. Fucking fine. She was eating yogurt and we were laughing at the funny pages.__"__ She looked at herself in the mirror and watched her tears mix with the mascara to form hideous black lines down her cheeks. She didn't care. __"__You know what, just go. Get the hell out of here.__"_

_Manny opened his mouth, but she swivelled around, and at five eight, she towered over the slender man. __"__OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!__"_

_When he was gone, and the door was closed again, she crumpled onto the rickety director's chair in front of the slapped together vanity and mirror. She had heard the screams, and despite it being against every single rule there was, she had run out onto the runway. She had seen Anastia laying there, like a discarded Barbie doll, all but naked on the runway, eyes staring up at the hot lights above her. Anastia had been sweet, kind; no one had ever had a bad word to say about her. In the cutthroat world of modeling, nice was practically unheard of. _

_Alex pulled her legs up in the chair and hooked her arms around them. She put her chin on her knees and closed her eyes. They said she couldn't go home until she talked to the cops. Wouldn't that be a fun conversation? She wasn't sure she wanted to go home anyway, her roommate being dead. Anastia would never go home again. Not to her apartment, not to her parent's house back in Arizona. She would never make that sentimental trip to Russia, the country her family had fled from before she'd even be born. She would never turn twenty-one or make her big break; she was dead. _

_A knock on the door jolted Alex out of the nap she hadn't intended to take. Her eyes were gritty from the tears she'd cried on her knees. She had fallen asleep in her chair, sitting straight up. That would hurt like hell later. She needed to change back into real clothes, she hadn't even thought about that. She was more or less naked. She was a model, not a go-go dancer. Not that she hadn't taken on a set or two when times had been tough. There had been more than one set of tough times before Hugh had discovered her. Hard times and she had been too proud to go home and hear 'I told you so'. She was suddenly rushed with the overwhelming urge to hear her Mom's voice. The only sound that echoed through the closet like space was more knocking. _

"_Just a minute!__"__ She grabbed at her jeans and tugged them on while she looked around for a shirt. __"__Shit shit shit.__"__ She dug into the bag she'd brought with her and pulled an old fading Packers tee shirt over the hundred-dollar bra. Feeling less like she was on display, she walked the two steps and opened then flimsy door. She wanted to shut it again immediately, but figured that would be a bad idea. She was already in deep shit with the cops as it is. Hitting the same cop twice would be a cosmically bad idea. There were two women at the door. She didn't know much about cops, but figured the blonde was in charge, the shield hanging from the chain around her neck was gold and the brunette wore a laminated ID tag around her neck and had a much less impressive badge hooked to her belt. The brunette had been the one she'd pegged with the can of hairspray; her name was Sara something. _

_The cop didn't look happy. __"__I'm Inspector Ashbourne and you've already met Sara Sidle. We need to talk to you.__"__ She didn't wait for an invitation, she went ahead and pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked on in to her closet like dressing room. Sara Sidle slid around too, holding her tackle-box of who-knew-what between them as she did. She put the large case on the vanity and popped it open. _

_The Inspector cleared her throat; __"__We're going to need to get your fingerprints to eliminate you as a suspect.__"_

_Alex nodded numbly. She crossed her arms and held herself close, __"__Do you know what happened? Why, who-__"__ Alex ran her hand over her face, trying desperately to center herself, She was in front of the cameras, perfectly in control of her facial expressions, body position and emotions. She took a deep breath and spoke again, much calmer now. __"__What I mean is, do you have any leads?__"__ That was what she was pretty sure they said on Law and Order. She'd never liked that show, but Anastia loved it. She turned it on every week, like clockwork and recorded it when she was out. _

_The Inspector shook her head, __"__We're still very early in the investigation. The word is that you were Miss Kovak's best friend. Do you know of anyone who had a problem with her?__"_

_Alex sat in the director's chair again, but this time she crossed her legs, propped her elbow on the chair's arm and rested her chin and cheek on her upturned palm. It was an automatic pose that drew attention to the angles and plains of her face. __"__God no! Anastia is the nicest person you could meet. She has this aura about her -- happy go lucky, nothing goings to get me down. She has this Pollyanna complex you can't help but smile at.__"__ Lost in her description of her friend, Alex hadn't noticed that she'd been speaking in present tense._

_Ashbourne didn't write anything down, but that was probably because everyone had said the same about Anastia. She didn't have an enemy in the world that Alex could think of. _

_The brunette, Sara, stepped in between them. "I have to take your fingerprints. It's simple even if it is a little messy." _

_Unsure of what to do, Alex held out both hands, "Um sure." _

_Sara spoke as she worked, "Did Anastia have a boyfriend?" _

_Alex chuckled, "No, the last guy she was with was a year and a half ago. She thought he was the one and he just liked being able to brag he was dating a model." _

_Sara pushed her fingers against the paper and the black ink left a looped and swirled fingerprint behind. "Are you sure there was no one she was seeing around here, like a male model or a stage hand, a designer maybe?" _

_Alex shook her head, "No, no to all of the above. Why?" _

_Sara looked at Ashbourne and back at her. The blonde shrugged and Sara sighed, "There was evidence that she'd had sexual intercourse before she died." _

_Alex's hands went stiff and still in the other woman's. "Oh." Her face, just for a second betrayed her and both Sara Sidle and Lucy Ashbourne saw fear flash across her beautiful features._

_Anastia had been dead for three days and the press was still swarming outside of the apartment building. She had called Anastia's parents first, hoping she would beat the press to the punch. They were on their way from Phoenix to take Anastia's body home. For burial. Jesus, it was so fucking surreal. They were supposed to have a shoot today out at Studio City. She had begged off and had been frankly surprised Hugh had let her get away with it. He was famous for being hard on his girls. He controlled everything, their shoots, their pay, their diets, even who they were supposed to be dating for the press. He knew best, of course. _

_Suddenly cold, she rubbed her arms and shuddered. The apartment, though modestly sized, felt large, empty and silent without Anastia's boisterous presence. Alex paced off the rooms, and checked the thermostat; it was far too chilly. The reliable dial told her, however, that it was a perfect sixty-eight degrees. She was the one who was cold, not the apartment. She ran her hands through her gold locks. She needed to stop this. Anastia wouldn't like this at all. She hadn't even put on makeup. She was still walking around in her pajamas -- if Tweety Bird boxer shorts and a stretched and faded 'I Heart New York' tee shirt could be considered pajamas. _

_She could all but hear the woman's voice echoing in the rooms, laughing good naturally at her. She kept pacing off the rooms, too wired to sit, but too weary to go out. There were three bolts, a knob lock and a chain securing the apartment door. She had been thinking about adding a kick plate and one of those floor bolts she'd heard about too. As Hugh was the landlord, she had thought he wouldn't care. That had been before he'd seen the extra bolt locks she'd wheedled the super into installing for her. He hadn't been pleased. Hugh wasn't an easy man to please. She rubbed at the back of her neck. He had been arguing with Anastia that night. For a moment she entertained the idea that he could have killed her. She had seen the body, though. Anastia's beautiful face had been perfect, but bellow there. Alex shuddered and paced faster. She had been strangled; there were ugly bruises all over her neck, around her wrists and along her ribs. Old bruises had been mixed with new. She knew that Anastia had been dead before she'd fallen, but hitting the runway like that had not been kind to her naturally lanky build. Her limbs had been thrown out, spread eagle on the narrow stage. Her neck and head had landed at an awkward angle, her neck had broken. Her eyes, a deep blue, had been open and dark red blood had dribbled out of her slack jaw. _

_Hugh had a temper, Alex knew that very well. She absently rubbed her wrists and, finally, sat down. What upset her most, if one thing could upset her more than any other thing, was what the brunette had said. Anastia had sex before the show? Now Alex knew women who did just that to get rid of pre-show jitters. She also knew girls who did a line of coke just for the same reason. Anastia had never done either. _

_Alex looked towards her friend's room. "And she definitely didn't have a boyfriend." _

_That, she knew, didn't mean much. Not in the circles they traveled in. Some models got jobs in high heels and power suits, some got them on the power of their pout, and others got the job on their back. Some girls, Alex brooded, just got in bad situations and had to do what they had to do to get out of them. She brought her knees to her chest again and stared into space. She should put on some music, maybe dig through Anastia's tapes and find something. She chuckled, she should dig out Anastia's secret premium imported Vodka and get good and trashed, lift a glass in the woman's name. Maybe she should invite a few of their friends, get some kind of wake going. Did Russian Orthodox Funerals have wakes attached to them? Well, Catholic ones did, at least all the Catholic funerals she'd been around. The two weren't all that different. Besides, Anastia would rather have them drinking, laughing and swapping stories than crying. Crying, Anastia had always said, only led to headaches, puffy eyes and eating binges. _

_Alex smiled as she reached for her phone. A wake it was. The phone rang when her hand was a fraction of an inch from grabbing it. She grabbed it mid-ring and put it to her ear, "Hello?" _

_It was Mitzi, a model who lived on the first floor. The other woman's voice was faster and more nasal than usual, which probably meant she'd done a line recently. When Alex unjumbled what the woman was saying, she realized Mitzi wasn't high at all, she was scared. The phone call was quick, but the message was a red flag. Hugh was here and he was pissed. Hugh often dropped by to "check on his girls" Whoever saw him first set off the relay system to warn everyone. Whether a girl needed to hide their stash of drugs, push the high calorie ice-cream to the back of the freezer or get their lover out the door, they needed warning. _

_Suddenly glad she hadn't turned on music, Alex cocked her head and listened for the elevator at the end of the hall. She went tense and still when she heard the ding that signified that it had stopped on her floor. There were three other apartments on the floor, surely he was going to go see someone else. It was not a knock at the door, it was a thunderous boom of a fist. _

"_ALEX YOU OPEN THIS DOOR!" _

_She sat for a moment, like a mule deer caught in a pick up truck's high beams. Hugh didn't like to be kept waiting. "YOU OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR, DUPREE!" _

_Knowing that he would only be angrier if kept waiting, Alex jumped to her feet and went to the door. Her hands shook as she threw the bolts and unhooked the chain. She pushed her hair back and opened the door, going for smooth and sophisticated. In the face of a seething manager, her attempt at composure fell completely flat. _

_Hugh's suit, usually impeccably kept, was in shambles. His jacket was gone, his tie hung limply off his neck, barely knotted, and his sleeves were rumpled and pushed back to his elbows. His boyishly white blonde hair was mussed and his laser green eyes were flashing dangerously. _

_She backed up until she ran into the entry way's waist high catch-all table. __"__Hugh.__"__ She hated that her voice shook. _

_He glared at her, __"__What did you tell them?__"_

_She blinked, __"__Tell who what? What are you talking about?__"__ She was all but pinned against the table and in one swift swing of his arm he knocked everything off the small table. Glass fell to the floor and shattered, mail scattered across the floor and two sets of keys clattered against the wall. __"__I-I don't know what you're talking about.__"_

_He pushed her and she hit the edge of the table with her hip. She bit her lip, that would leave a visible bruise, and worse, the table toppled and the leg broke. __"__The Cops, the cops, the fucking cops, Alex. What did you tell them?__"__ He stalked away and slammed the door so hard it bounced back off the wood and warped._

"_They came to the office, sniffing around. They had a motherfucking warrant. Do you know what that means?__"_

_She edged around him and into the living room. __"__I didn't tell them anything about you. They were asking about Anastia.__"_

_He took a step closer and she took one back. __"__Well they were asking questions. They wanted a sample of my fucking DNA. They had a judge sign off on that. Now why the hell would they want that unless someone opened their fucking mouth about me?__"_

_She shook her head and he came at her quicker. __"__What, were you jealous, Alex? Were you missing me?__"_

_She backed up until her back hit the closed bathroom door. __"__Jesus Christ, Hugh, my best friend is dead. I told the cops the truth. I don't know who killed her and if I did I would kill him myself.__"_

_He was too close now, and Alex felt panic, raw and overpowering, crawl up her throat. __"__Get back.__"__ She held out her hands, but he batted them away. She cursed herself for choosing ballet class instead of karate as a child. __"__Hugh, I mean it.__"_

_He laughed at her and took a forearm, which seemed thick and corded with inhuman amounts of muscle and sinew, and put it across her exposed neck. __"__And what do you think you're going to do to stop me?__"__ He leaned even closer, __"__Anastia couldn't stop me and we both know that she was much tougher than you could even think of being, Alexandra.__"_

_There was a gleam in his eye, she'd seen it before. She'd had to use grease-based makeup to cover up the bruises for weeks last time. __"__Please, God, please.__"_

_The words squeezed out of her throat. He put more weight on her throat and she realized that the tips of her toes were no longer touching the floor. They were nose to nose now, __"__That didn't help her either.__"_

_It hit her like a bolt, the knowledge that her deepest fears and darkest suspicions were true. Hugh had killed Anastia. Another part of her brain, soft from years of evolution and a peaceful existence but feral none the less, sent the message, clear and fast as lightning to the rest of her body. Hugh was going to kill her too. That galvanized her. She pushed back against the wall with her shoulders and swung her feet, trying to hit his balls. Gray and red dots were dancing in front of her eyes and she couldn't breathe._

_Suddenly, Hugh's weight was gone and she fell to the floor. On her ass, back against the wall, she coughed, sputtered and gasped for breath. She watched what was happening, but her mind had trouble putting the chaotic happenings together. _

_Everything fell into place when she saw the lovely Sara Sidle with a gun aimed at Hugh, watching while the blonde Inspector and another large dark haired cop handcuff him. Feeling exposed, Alex tried to stand, but her legs collapsed under her. She vaguely noted that the left leg was cut and a thin line of blood was working it's way down her calf to her ankle. _

_She rubbed her throat and forced herself to speak. __"__He did it. He fucking killed her.__"_

_Sidle crouched down beside her. __"__We know. It's okay, you're going to be okay. Did he hurt you, did we get here in time?__"_

_Slightly confused, Alex only shrugged, __"__He didn't hurt me this time. Not this fucking time.__"_

_She barely noticed Sara looking over her shoulder at the other cops, she was just happy that Hugh was away from her and that the gun wielding, serious as a priest, pretty as a picture woman was protecting her for the time being._

"_Please state your name for the record.__"_

_The courtroom was quiet and smelled faintly of sweat and lemon disinfectant scrub. She had worked for this for months, sweated it out. She had talked to the press, to other models, to lawyers. She had talked to the Inspectors and CSIs at length a couple of times. Sara had helped walk her through this a hundred times. She was ready. It was like any other gig, but this time it was for the months dead-and-buried Anastia Kovak. _

_She leaned forward and clearly stated her name into the microphone. Then she watched Wesley Tanner stand up. He started with the question he'd told her he'd use and she answered smoothly. It was just like the times they'd practiced, except this time the defendant__'__s table wasn't empty. Hugh was sitting there, looking like a clean cut, salt of the earth type. The jury probably thought he was a model too. He was a monster and, as everyone had told her, reminded her over and over again, he was a rapist -- her rapist. She dug her nails into her palm. He had also killed Anastia and had tried to kill her. This was more than a fucking gig; it was personal. She answered every single one of Wesley's questions, and tried to make the jury see it the way she had. By the time this was over, she wanted each and everyone in the jury box to know Anastia and her killer just as well as she had. _

_The hardest part, she knew, was still to come. No matter how many questions Wesley had grilled her with, they didn't know what Hugh's fucking slimy lawyer would ask. When Wesley ended his line of questions, she had said everything she'd needed to. Now she had to, as Inspector Ashbourne had told her, make sure she stuck to her guns._

_While the defence attorney, Stark, stood, she looked out over the gathered observers. She recognized many of the faces there and one made her smile ever so slightly. Sara sat near the back, on the prosecutor's side. The CSI had already given her testimony, but having her there made Alex feel even more sure of herself. _

_Anastia's final hours had been starkly laid out. Alex now knew that her friend had been braver than she could have ever been. She was going to go to the police, that very night, about Hugh. He had raped her, raped plenty of girls, and only Anastia had been brave enough to go to the police. Hugh had killed her and hid her body before she could. This was, as Sara had told her, Alex's chance to make things right and finish Anastia's work. This bastard, the raping murdering fuckhead, was going down, she was making sure of it._

"_Now, Miss Dupree, you __**allege**__that my client raped you too? __"_

_She turned her head to look at the lawyer. __"__I don't allege anything, he did rape me.__"_

_Hands behind his back, Stark paced the room, __"__But you didn't report it until after he'd been charged, with very little physical proof, of the murder of your best friend. That seems a little coincidental to me. Miss Dupree, have you been coached in any way? Did the Inspectors or maybe the DA encourage you to come forward?__"_

_Alex crossed her legs. She knew exactly what Mr. Stark was doing. The tabloids had been playing the same game with her for months. Her career was shot and her parents had been scandalized, and didn't this lawyer think he was hot shit? He was a fucking amateur and she was about to beat him at his own game. Of course she would be using the truth, something she was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to ID if it punched him in the face. __"__No, I decided to come forward about the same time Hugh had me pinned by the throat against the wall of my apartment.__"_

_She didn't have to look at the jury to know that she had already won._

_The next day, after the guilty verdict had come down, she decided to send Sara Sidle flowers._

_Alex knew as well as she knew her own name that she couldn't have done any of this without her._

_Author's Note: I meant to get this chapter up last week but life interfered. I was so busy that I didn't even get to reply to my wonderful reviews. Thats okay though, I took the weekend off and really enjoyed it, so making up for its okay. _


	34. Chapter XXXIII: Back to the Future

_Chapter XXXIII_

_Back to the Future_

Catherine cocked a brow and waited until the woman had finished her story. She had, during the telling, read between Dupree's words and watched her facial expressions, looking for oversights and lies. It would be easy enough to check her story, even without Sara's input. Not that she was going to rely on Sara's input for anything with this case. Sidle was obviously far too close to the suspect. They had been lovers. Their relationship had ended close to a decade ago, but some ties ran long and deep and Sara, despite what may or may not have happened with Gil, didn't seem like the type to forget.

A quick wave of disgust made her sneer. She'd known a dozen men like Hugh Spalding. She didn't have to be there to know; what little Dupree shared about him was enough. He'd had a pimp complex, she'd seen it long before she'd worked murder cases. A manager would look at his girls, whether they be strippers, hookers or models, and think of them as personal property. He got off on controlling them. Apparently, Spalding had taken the game too far.

The fact that Sara had met Dupree on a crime scene, working a case, surprised her. Sara was the professional one. She could count on one hand the times she had seen Sara get close with someone on a case, either negative or positive way. Alex must have been one of the few and far in between exceptions to the rule. Then again Sara was a sucker for saving innocent people from bad situations. June Melton and little Brenda Collins came to her mind as she listened; they were another couple of Sara's exceptions.

She mentally added in Alexandra Dupree and ran cases through her head.

Sara reacted poorly. Catherine would happily go as far to say that she went a tiny bit bat-shit insane every time she pulled a case that dealt with battered women and children. The brunette CSI usually played her hand close to her chest, though. Something about Alexandra Dupree must have leapt out at her. Building a relationship with a rape survivor was tough, but to know every single detail of the rape and have it standing between you was a whole different kettle of fish. It all added into the incomplete, vague and fuzzy puzzle that was Sara Sidle.

Her perception of Alexandra Dupree, though, was much clearer and sharper. She was one hundred percent sure that the model had something to do with the murders. The 'why' and most importantly the 'how' were what she was after now. She could let Dupree continue to wax poetic on her past, or she could cut through the bullshit.

Catherine had about a million other places she'd rather be on a Saturday morning. While Sofia was noting down a couple of things, Catherine popped the latches on her kit and opened it up enough so she could slide her hand into the vertical case. Behind her, Sara reviewed the case from a professional perspective. It sounded open, shut, clean as a whistle and by the book, probably down to the punctuation on the reports.

Across from her, Alex was grinning and, to Catherine's amusement, the model leaned over to her assistant and half whispered, "I love it when she talks shop."

The assistant muffled a giggle and the manager rolled his eyes. Catherine waited until Sara finished, or had at least stopped for a breath. "Have we finished with our trip down memory lane yet? Because let me tell you, this was all a 'You had to be there' story. Now, Miss Dupree, if you can stop ogling Sara for a minute, I need you to take a look at this for me."

She slid a copy of the device, its deceiving outside shell, across the table. "Do you know what this is, Miss Dupree?"

She felt Sofia stiffen beside her, but Catherine knew the detective wouldn't say anything. Sofia was too damn professional to interrupt an interrogation because she didn't necessarily agree with the direction it was headed in.

Dupree shrugged and picked up the picture. Her golden brown eyes perused it for a moment, then looked at Catherine over the top of the glossy print. "Is this some kind of joke? Because it looks like a -"

Catherine chuckled, "I thought you might say that." She reached into her kit and pulled the second photo out and slid it across the table slowly. "This is the same item, the inside of it, at least."

It didn't take long, only seconds, for Alex's eyes to focus on the picture and her brain to process what it was seeing. Her hand flew off the table and the picture as though her fingers had been scorched.

"What kind of sick fucking shit is this?" The model glared at each of the three women. "What the hell is that?" She all but threw the picture back at Catherine.

Catherine only crossed her arms, "There's no need to play coy, Miss Dupree." She reached into her kit one more time and took out a sheaf of papers. "You can, after all, get the instructions to make one of these on your TAN website. I believe it was under the 'Mother Says' section. So, what, one day you were sitting around your mansion and decided that you hated men enough to slice them up like Freddy Kruger? One raped you and so they're all rapists? Is every man a Hugh Spalding, Dupree?"

Catherine sneered, "I could almost pity you, but you decided to teach your particular brand of bat-shit insanity to innocent girls." She reached into her kit again and this time the picture was of Erica Green. Catherine was sure Sara recognized it, she had taken it after all. It was not a pretty picture. It was a crime scene photo that showed the young girl laying on dirty cement, her body naked and her legs and genitals covered in blood. "She used on of your little devices and now she's dead. Just another name on a list as long as my arm, and we can trace every single one of these murders back to you and _your_ little device."

Alex stared at the printed out instructions Catherine had all but shoved at her. "All right, I've been to the website more than once and I would sure as fucking hell remember this and--" She glanced at the corresponding picture of the device's inner workings, "and especially that." She shuddered, "And I can tell you without a doubt, not one fucking doubt in my damn head, that this is the first and hopefully the last time I've seen this fucking nightmare."

Catherine didn't seem particularly fazed, "Yeah, I didn't see it either until I logged in under Erica Greens's name."

Alex blew out a puff of breath that ruffled her hairline. "Erica Green, you mentioned her before. Why the hell does that sound so familiar?" She looked to her assistant, "Where do I know it from?"

Jennica only shrugged, "It doesn't ring a bell for me either."

Sofia cleared her throat, "She was killed on the twenty fourth of last month, a little over a week ago. She was a member of the UNLV chapter of T.A.N." 

Alex frowned again and she ran her hands through her hair, then her face lit up. "The soccer player? I remember now; they took up a collection for her at the lecture. I think there was a picture too."

She closed her eyes for a minute, "One of the girls, black hair and fake last season Jimmy Chus, told me about her. She said that the girl's coach had raped her, but she didn't go to the hospital to get a rape kit done." The model tapped her manicured nails on her arm, "She was killed by some street punk or something, right? I wrote a check for them to give to her parents."

Jennica rose, without prompting, presumably to retrieve the record of said check.

Beside Catherine, Sofia uncrossed her arms, then shrugged and re-crossed them. "Can you remember this girl's name? The one you spoke to about Erica, I mean."

Alex shrugged and twisted around on the couch so she was leaning against the arm with her feet up, effectively eliminating the empty space where her assistant had been. "I talked to so many girls that day and then I ran into you." The latter part of the statement was directed at Sara. "And that sort of pushed everything else to the back burner."

Jennica re-entered the room, carrying a small soft shell briefcase. She smiled a little and casually batted Alex's feet down to sit in the middle of the couch. "I haven't had time to transfer everything over to the computer yet." She unzipped and shuffled through the case on her lap, and quickly revealed a red folder that was meticulously labeled 'Vegas'.

While she was flipping through it, Andros held out a hand and stopped her. "Listen I have been as quiet as I could, probably longer than I should have. Talking, and we can only barely consider _this_ talking, is one thing, but handing over financial records is another. I'm calling your lawyer now, Alexandra." His tone left no room for argument.

Alex looked over at him, almost lazily, "You'll have to go get him, he doesn't have a key and the elevator to this suite and blah blah blah."

Andros spoke a few terse words into his phone and snapped it shut. "I will be right back, I trust this conversation is on pause until I return."

Any further comment was interrupted by another phone ringing. It was a lipstick red blackberry that was laying on the table, the ring tone was 'Party Like A Rockstar' She looked down at the ID, "It's New York calling,"

The younger woman looked over at Alex, "Probably about Fashion Week."

Alex rolled her neck and held out a hand for the phone, "I have to take this." She stood, "I think I'll go to the other room." She inclined her head, "Excuse me, Detective, Ms Willows, Sahara." She sauntered out of the room, followed by her assistant and for the first time since they'd entered the suite Catherine, Sara and Sofia were alone.

Sara waited until both Andros and Alex along with her assistant were out of earshot, then she slumped against the back of the couch. "_Nice_, Catherine, that was _great_." Sarcasm was positively dripping off of Sara's voice.

Catherine only shrugged, "You'd be the same with _any other_ suspect." Sara didn't say anything, whether her silence stemmed from anger or knowing what Catherine said was true, Sofia couldn't tell.

After a moment of tense silence, Sofia shifted around and pulled a toothpick out of her pocket. She took off the wrapper as she spoke, "I don't remember there being a picture of Erica Green at the meeting."

Sara, slouched on the couch much closer to Sofia than Catherine's side, frowned, "And I definitely don't remember anyone talking about taking up a collection." Sofia mirrored her frown.

The investigators lapsed into silence again and Catherine blew out a sigh and checked her watch, "How long does it take to decide between a little black dress and a little red dress any way?" She looked in the direction that Alex and Jennica had gone. She would have kept glaring in that direction had she not heard Sara scoff. Catherine whirled around, "Something you'd like to share with the rest of the group?"

Sara straightened up and walked around the couch and sat one of the chairs that had been left vacant. "Alex is sort of squeamish, has been ever since her roommate. She gave her assistant a sign and probably had her make the phone call that was supposedly from New York. It's an old trick she uses when she needs to regroup herself."

Catherine barely had her protest out when the suite's main door reopened and Andros led a second man in. The pudgy, casually attired man smiled at the women as he came in.

He held out a hand for Sofia to shake, "Harvey Everett of Donovan Everett and Woody."

Sofia gave a brisk, firm handshake, "I'm Detective Curtis with the LVPD and this is Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, both of the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

Everett nodded, and glanced over at Sara, "I know Sara; half of the criminal defense attorneys cried tears of joy when she left the SFPD." He turned his head to Catherine, "And Sam Braun's daughter too, you have an eclectic taste in partners, Detective."

Sofia liked him immediately.

Alex glided back in to the room and greeted her lawyer with a hug instead of the air kiss Sofia had expected. "Harv, Tristan is throwing a fit so he called you. All I was going to do was show them a damn check stub and Jennica's notes about it. It's not like I'm confessing to capital crimes."

The friendly face that Emmett had walked in with quickly disappeared under an impassive court face. "Alex cooperating is one thing, but these are your personal financial records."

The model crossed her arms over her chest. "They're talking about a dead girl, and three or four dead men, I don't think one check is pushing things too damn far."

After a minute of quick debate, the check's carbon copy and Jennica's notes were passed over for Sofia to look over. She raised a brow and angled the information so Sara could see.

Sara looked over at Alex, "Are you sure this was the girl you talked to and gave the check to that day?" At the blonde model's nod both Sara and Sofia scowled.

Author's Note: Happy Birthday to me!  



	35. Chapter XXXIV: Killer Insight

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes. Yay me! Though I would like to say the gifts were a bit on the skimpy side. That's okay, though, you have plenty of time to plan for next year. Just kidding, I'll happily accept late gifts._

_In other news I've found another victim, I mean beta reader to look over the spelling and gramatical trainwreck that is this story . So a big thanks goes out to The Sarcastic Typo. _

_No go read and enjoy or at least read it and pretend to enjoy. I need a nap._

_Chapter XXXIV_

_Killer Insight_

She had the television on for white noise. It was a habit she had picked up a few years back, and now she couldn't seem to do any work without its constant drone. She wasn't working right now, but she'd left it on anyway if only to drown out the rest of the apartment complex's noises. Bare feet tapped on the faded linoleum of the small apartment's kitchenette. A window unit on the far wall belched out enough cold air to keep the five feet around it comfortably cool, but the rest of the small apartment relied on fans to stir the oppressively hot air around.

It was Saturday and the weekend, in all its precious glory, was hers. Hers to do with what she would. Tonight would be prime time for club crawling. All the freaks came out for a hot Vegas night. Unfortunately this weekend, like most, she was stuck inside, working. It wouldn't be so bad if her roommate didn't flaunt the fact that she didn't have to do anything like that. Freaking theater majors. It wasn't even midterms and she was already busting her ass to keep up with her full load of classes, not to mention TAN and her tutoring duties. Just one more semester and she was done with school and with Vegas. She would head out to LA; that's where all the real action went on any way.

Bowl of cereal in hand she headed over to the crumbling, lumpy piece of junk parading around as a futon underneath the air conditioner and settled down with the thick book she needed to finish for her term paper for her Women's Lit class. She folded her bare legs underneath her and twisted the chain she wore as she read. The rings that dangled off of the tightly twisted gold rope chain clinked against her own high school class ring. She reached blindly for her highlighter and her stack of post-it notes, still reading. She might have spent the entire day reading—the book was rather hefty—but the television caught her attention. It had been on whatever channel her roommate had watched last. Her roommate had poor taste in entertainment, and there was one of the endless, mundane celebrity count downs were on. She personally could care less about the Britneys and Brangelinas of Hollywood, but some people, even those who had degrees, were just that: materialistic, vapid unwashed masses of morons. What had caught her attention, however, was the fact that the countdown had been interrupted by a newsflash. She set aside her book and the soggy cereal to look. The so-called reporter, another in an endless parade of ex-MTV VJ has-beens, stood in front of a stock photo of Vegas. Despite his claims of being in Vegas live, she knew better. The Rampart was still in the skyline; it was an obvious giveaway.

"_I'm here inVegas where this story has just absolutely snowballed almost overnight. Alex Dupree: model, activist and millionaire has become, to quote the LVPD, a person of interest ina murder investigation. The information is still coming in, but she has already been to the police station once." He paused and the screen cut to some shaky footage of the blonde model being escorted to a marked police car outside of the Paris._

"_As you can see she has a black garment, reportedly her date's shirt, over her hands, but she is very obviously handcuffed. We are waiting now for the officers to come back out. Our correspondent Trent Maitland is at the scene, Trent?" The screen cut again toanother man standing outside of one of Vegas's many hotels. He had a microphone and hair so securely gelled in place a tornado wouldn't have moved it. "We're here, waiting at a side door for members of the LVPD to come out, it should be any second."_

Now very interested, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Just as the reporter had said, the door opened and cops did come out. There were three women, to be specific: an older blonde, followed by a brunette and a black-clad blonde with a toothpick in her mouth. The reporters, there were several there, started yelling questions at them.

_The local reporters knew names and were the quickest off the block. "Ms.Willows, is Alex Dupree a suspect in the recent string of unsolved Male Mutilator killings?" Another reporter elbowed around: "Detective Curtis, is it true that the LVPD has refused the FBI's help, again?" A third, and apparently most blood-thirsty reporter, all but jumped in the three's path: "Ms. Sidle, is it true that you and Alex Dupree were lovers?" At that point, the blonde, Detective Curtis, stepped in front of the obviously-shocked brunette. "No comment." She pushed the reporter aside roughly. "The LVPD, the Crime Lab and no one associated with them have a comment at this time. There will be a press conference at a later time and we will have a comment then." She sounded pissed, but that hardly stopped the onslaught of questions, most of them aimed at the brunette, Sidle._

Studying forgotten, she stood up. She remembered them now, Sara Sidle and Detective Curtis, they had come to talk to her after the meeting. They had shown her pictures and asked questions. She had also met Alex Dupree. It was a small, small world after all. The television was going over the facts of the case and she took the remote off of the coffee table and flipped the channel over to the local news. All of the local affiliate stations were running the story, as was CNN. They had even dubbed her the Male Mutilator.

No, she scowled as the Headline News anchor started a new segment. They were calling Alex Dupree the Male Mutilator. Jesus, what kind of nickname was that anyway? The Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, the Green River Killer the Zodiac, and all Vegas's finest could come up with was the Mutilator? It sounded like a pro wrestler's claim to fame. Even BTK had gotten a better break. It wasn't Alex Dupree though. She doubted Alex Dupree, as pretty as she may be, could kill someone. She didn't know the rush of pain, of power, of passion that enveloped you when you killed someone. She couldn't possibly understand watching a rapist's face contort in pain when he suddenly realized he was on the receiving end. There was power there, the sweet tang of justice and revenge for every woman the sickos of the world had hurt. There in lay the wide gap of inequality. Cops didn't understand what it was like, not in the least. They never felt powerless or alone or scared. Mother had told them that. Cops let rapists run free, and in prison, men raped each other, just because they didn't want to stop themselves. She smiled at that thought. Mother had taught her how to punish them; she hadn't told her how heady a rush it would be. The first kill had been an accident. The wrestler was big, solid with muscle, and she hadn't been exactly sure how much to use. The next time though, with the perv, that had been something altogether different. She had just moved and it had been like the heavy candlestick had jumped into her hands. She had just kept hitting him. There was blood, so much of it. The shower had washed it off of her body, but she could remember the texture and smell, how it had covered her skin and speckled into her dark hair and shown up so vividly against her teeth.

What did Alex Dupree know about that? The model had said she'd been raped, but she had never been on the giving end. She was all talk and no action, unless there was a camera involved. She was just one of Mother's tools, her weapons in the great battle against the sick men who thought they could get away with what they did to women. She was proud of what she had done, she had killed two rapists and saved God only knew how many women and girls.

On the other hand, though, no one suspected her. All of Vegas, and the country, maybe even the world, was looking at Alex Dupree. They thought she did it. Sidle and Curtis and whoever else had no idea. Cops were dumb creatures, ignorant and easily lead. That was right. She was just a college girl; she'd lost a good friend. A friend and ally: she and Erica had made their weapons together, had followed the directions and figured it out. Erica had been a casualty of the war that all women fought. At least she had taken that piece of shit with her.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. She went to her small room and sat on her mussed bed. The lock box that held her weapon of choice lay open and she looked down at it. Guns, knives, fists, everyone had their own way. Let Alex Dupree take the fall, it would allow her more time to hone and perfect her craft. Mother would agree; it would be a blow, but TAN would recover. Models were a dime a dozen, well trained daughters of the movement were much harder to come by. She was a holy assassin of sorts, and she intended to keep taking out rapists. She picked up her latex and steel equalizer and smiled down at it. As mother had told her in one of the email newsletters for the special members of TAN: If not her, who? If not now, when?


	36. Chapter XXXV: Better than SHR!

_Chapter XXXV_

_Better than 'School House Rock'_

Catherine was more than simply tired when she pulled into her driveway. She suffered from a bone-deep weariness that she hadn't been able to shake for what seemed like forever. She had a nasty headache pounding right behind her eyes and the coffee she'd been running on had soured in her stomach. She felt like the dreaded Time Bitch had slipped a few extra decades in on her while her back was turned. She had shed her jacket as soon as she'd fought through the pack, or was it school, of ravenous shark paparazzi and reporters. The sunglasses she wore barely disguised the dark circles and she might as well have packed her kit in the bags under her fatigued eyes. She climbed down from the Denali and left her kit, devoid of anything that would actually help the case in her opinion, lying in the back floorboard. She raised her hand more out of habit than greeting when her next door neighbor waved. She picked up the paper as she slid her key in the front door and shoved it open with her hip.

The interior of her house, the house she had fought tooth and nail to keep after Eddie had screwed her over, was dim, cool and quiet. She closed the door behind her, slipped her aching feet out of her heels one by one and almost groaned aloud at the instant relief the action gave her. She dropped her keys to the Department-issued SUV in the glass bowel she'd bought for just that purpose, and laid her jacket down beside it. She, uncharacteristically, still had her Glock holstered and on her and her laminate ID hanging beside it. Opening the collar and pushing the sleeves of her severely tailored white shirt up to her elbows, she headed towards the kitchen and tugged her knee high stockings off as she went. Now barefoot on the tile of her kitchen, she could hear the television in the den and the ticking of the central air unit. Dishes in the sink told her that Lindsey was up and had eaten. Her daughter had, predictably, not cleaned up behind herself. Catherine was too tired to care all that much. The dishes could and would be done later, the counter would be wiped clean. She would rather, today at least, wait then start a war with Lindsey now.

Catherine poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot that Lindsey must have brewed, and wandered over to the den. Lindsey's crutches were propped against the arm of the couch and a half full bottle of Dasani water was leaving a ring on the oak side table. MTV was showing some inane episode of brain-melting stupidity and the pink Dell laptop, Sam's last birthday gift to his one grandchild, was on the coffee table. Amidst the chaos was Lindsey withher cell phone in one hand and her iPod in the other. Lindsey's ankle was wrapped in an ACE bandage and propped on a cushion and the dark blonde teen looked distinctly unhappy. Then again, any red-blooded American teenager would be less than happy to be sidelined by a sprained ankle on the weekend. More than happy to take a load off, Catherine went around the couch and sat in the nearby matching recliner. For amoment, neither of the Willows women spoke. Catherine let herself relax into the chair and closed her eyes for a minute. It was good to be home.

"Is it true?"

Caught off guard by Lindsey's non-sequitur, Catherine cracked one eye open. "Is what true?"

Lindsey propped herself up against the arm of the couch. "That Alex Dupree used to be Sara's girlfriend? I mean _Sara_, the Sara you work with like every night."

Catherine let out a sigh, this was what she'd been hoping to escape from. She rubbed both of her temples, trying to ward off the headache that sprang up every time Alex Dupree and Sara Sidle were mentioned together."That was a long time ago, before Sara even moved to Vegas." She had always taught Lindsey that discrimination was wrong: color, creed, nationality, sexuality. Of course, while she had used Warrick as an example of how racism was wrong, she had certainly never thought to use Sara as an example, and certainly not one for sexuality. Lindsey, though, didn't seem fazed. Then again, at sixteen her daughter seemed to have more gay and bi friends at school than Catherine had ever heard of at the same age.

"That totally sucks." Catherine opened her mouth, but Lindsey continued. "Having like an ex barging in on your life again like so quick after a nasty break up. Sara has worse relationship karma then you do."

Catherine sat up strait and found herself blinking rapidly. "Excuse me?"

Lindsey smiled and shrugged it off. "No offense, Mom, but it's true. I mean first Mr. Grissom breaks up with her while she's still in the hospital and now like Alex Dupree just walks back in and totally drags Sara into a big scandal."

Catherine frowned. "Lindsey where did you hear about Grissom and Sara?" More precisely how did her daughter find out when she had only learned of the break up a few days ago?

Her daughter fidgeted and a blush started to crawl up her face. "Um, I overheard you and Gran talking about it?" It was a shot in the dark and Lindsey had missed by a country mile.

Catherine narrowed her eyes and gave her daughter her hardest 'mom' look, "Lindsey." This was usually about the time that Lindsey would slump, stomp or run out of the room. Her current predicament combined with strict orders from her ballet instructor cut out those options. In short Lindsey Allison Willows was stuck. Catherine would wager her girl's college fund that she was trying to decide between another lie and whatever the truth was. Lindsey shrugged and slumped against the couch arm again, a sign that she was probably opting for the truth over a lie.

"Alright, remember when she was in the hospital after the desert and Gran dropped me off with you because she had to go do that thing for Grandpa Sam?"

Catherine frowned at the way Lindsey referred to Sam, but nodded. "Go on."

_Desert Palms Hospital_

_Six Months Earlier_

_Why were hospitals always so cold? Not to mention the smell, the smell was probably the worst part: rubber gloves, alcohol and something else that she couldn't quite place. Lindsey tried to get comfortable in the plastic chair in the waiting room. No, the worst part was sitting, she decided, in a room full of cops and CSIs with nothing to do. She felt for them, she did. It wasn't that she wasn't concerned about Sara, either. Sara was pretty decent, weird but okay, plus she always gave the best gifts. Why the woman always sent hers in the same box with Uncle Jim, Lindsey didn't know. It was some weird thing with her Mom. Mom and Sara were like the two most popular girls in school. They co-existed and even acted like friends sometimes, but they really hated each other. Mom would probably freak if she found out that Sara was the one who'd given her the totally bitching boots and fifty dollar iTunes gift card for Christmas, so some things were best left unmentioned. Besides it wasn't like she hadn't sent Sara a thank-you card, with Uncle Jim's. It was like being a spy,but only one of them had a gun._

_Maybe hate was too harsh a word, because she could tell her mom had been crying. Old people were such freaks sometimes. Speaking of old people, no one was looking her way. She'd been relegated to the corner of the room where a TV was showing a rerun of ER, which was kind of a gruesome show to show in a hospital. The sign that reminded people that cell phones were banned from the hospital was right below the screen, mocking her. How was she supposed to sit here in a room full of cops talking cop stuff all around her? Her mother was talking with Nick, total hottie, and Greg, an even hotter hottie, and wasn't looking her way. It was too easy to slip off into the hallway. _

_The rubber-alcohol smell was stronger, but just like in the waiting room, no one was paying any attention to her. The nurses were bustling around and the occasional normal person walked by, but they too were too caught up in their own drama to pay attention to her. Now if she could just find an empty room or something, she could use her phone and no one would jump her. As if a couple of texts were going to shut someone's pacemaker off or something, yeah right._

_There were no empty rooms, she had quickly figured that much out. It was like half of Vegas was at the hospital for something. She'd almost had a heart attack when two cops came down the hall, but they too ignored her. She tiptoed past an open door, but paused when she saw Mr. Grissom inside. Of all the places she could have gone, she had found Sara's room. She was about to move along, quickly, when she heard Mr. Grissom's voice and stopped dead in her tracks._

"_I can't be with you and do my job too. Every single night, you pull on that flimsy vest on and you take your kit out, and you put your life in my hands. I can't, I won't mess that up. I almost lost you Sara. I couldn't live with myself if-". There was a pause, "You're okay, this time. What about the next time, though, and the time after that? What happens when it's Warrick or Catherine or any of us? Greg was beaten within an inch of his life. Jim was shot. You and Nick were kidnapped and we damn near didn't get to either of you in time. Holly Gribbs _died_. I won't risk you, Sara, not aga-"_

_Oh My God. Major eew. Mr. Grissom was like eighty or something, he was old enough to be Sara's dad. Eew. Besides the fact that it was totally gross, it sounded like he was dumping her. Lindsey listened in the hall, by the wall, hidden from the door. _

"_How_noble_ of you. The great Gilbert Grissom turns his back on love so he can be a better CSI. The only way to keep me safe is to leave me." _

_Seriously, no one could be so stupid. Lindsey silently cheered Sara on. Mr. Grissom would totally have to cave in. He didn't though, in fact, he left, which was like the bitchiest thing ever. Lindsey suffered through a minute of panic, afraid Mr. Grissom, the jerk, would see her. Luckily for her, though, one of the nurses rushed into Sara's room andMr. Grissom left without even glancing in her direction. She thought she was in the clear, but before she could figure out which direction to go in, the nurse came back out of the room."Oh."Shit, shit, double shit. She was so caught. The nurse, though, didn't ask her what she was doing in the hallway, she just smiled. "Oh, I didn't know Sara had a daughter, go right on in." The over-cheerful nurse all but pushed her into the room and left._

_Lindsey quickly opened her mouth, then shut it again. Sara blinked and looked at her with her head cocked to the side. "Lindsey, what are you doing here?" _

_Lindsey pushed her bangs out of her eyes, "I came to see you, duh." It wasn't exactly a lie, after all. She walked into the room and scooched the bedside chair back a little before sitting in it. Sara, arms across her chest, didn't look very happy. Of course, from what Lindsey had just heard, she didn't blame her. "So you've had a bad day or two, huh." _

_Sara blinked and let out a weak little laugh. "Yeah, you could say that." _

_Lindsey folded her legs up under her in the chair. "So how long do you have to be in here?" _

_Sara blew out a half hearted sigh. "A few days." _

_Lindsey groaned and rolled her eyes. "No cell phone, no Internet, and basic cable, I could put you out of your misery now if you like." _

_Sara gingerly turned her body around to look at her. "I'll keep that in mind. So what are you doing here, your Mom wasn't making you hang out in the waiting room is she?" _

_Lindsey shrugged. "It sucks. There are all of these cops outside and like all your friends and they're all blabbing to each other, and I think there's another flower arrangement in there too."_

"_Good, I can open my own florist shop. She smirked at her own joke and then laid still for a moment, the sighed. "Sorry, I'm out of it right now." Lindsey only shrugged and they sat quietly for a minute._

_It nagged at Lindsey, she knew it would be impolite, but—"Were you scared?" _

_Sara looked over at her, only half listening. "Hmm?" _

_Lindsey fidgeted. "Mom said you were trapped in a car, and it was flooding, were you scared?" She watched the 'ah-ha' moment cross over Sara's face and continued, "I mean, I had a cell phone and Mom came and got me, you all were there in like a flash. You were alone, though." She fell silent and hoped that she hadn't upset Sara._

_Slowly, though, Sara nodded. "Just between you and me, I was scared out of my mind." Sara shuddered and then winced. "Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew they would be looking for me—your mom, Greg, Sofia, Nick, and Warrick—but I was scared."_

_Lindsey nodded. "My therapist,"she started, then she wrinkled her nose. "Don't look at me like that, everyone has a therapist now and Mom makes me go. Anyway, she said that bravery isn't the lack of fear but like doing something despite of it. So I guess that makes you the bravest person I know." _

_That made Sara smile, and that split her dry lips._

_Lindsey didn't comment on the lip-splittage or the drops of blood, she handed Sara a kleenex and continued. "Hey, we have to stick together, it's a small but cool club we're in. The Psycho-Bitches-Almost-Got-Us-Drowned-In-Sports-Cars Club, there's a monthly fee but also a free tee-shirt." Sara laughed so hard Lindsey knew it actually hurt._

_The nurse was at the door, probably to shoo her out, so Lindsey went ahead and stood up. "Oh, I didn't have flowers,"both she and Sara smiled, "but—" She dug into her purse and pulled out her iPod, "this has some stuff on it." Lindsey grinned. "Wouldn't want you to go crazy in here or anything." The nurse ushered her out, smiling, and told Sara's next visitor they could go in. Lindsey didn't recognize the woman, but hoped that her visit went slightly better than the one with Mr. Grissom had. Of course it would be really hard to top his visit. Lindsey paused at the end of the hall to watch the blonde woman go in and wished her luck. She, at least, looked Sara's age. Lindsey chuckled at herself, "Totally."_

* * *

Despite the fact that she would very much enjoy hours of uninterrupted time with her daughter, Catherine had to sleep. She wasn't scheduled to go in tonight, but knew she would be called in anyway. She was a supervisor and extra hours, especially during high profile cases, were par for the course. She'd been working extra hours here and there all week. Between the trouble with Sara and the disturbing case, she was exhausted. Exhausted, weary to the bone, but unable to drift off to sleep.

She punched her pillow into a new shape and rolled over on her back to stare up at the cracks of sunlight that peeked around her blackout curtains dance on the ceiling. Hearing Sara's versions of events, detailing Gil's less than tactful breakup speech was one thing. Hearing it from her daughter was another. Lindsey was a completely unbiased witness—she had no reason to lie. On the contrary, Catherine was reasonably sure that her daughter knew about her problems with Sara. So wouldn't it have made more sense to lie, or not mention it at all? Who could understand the sixteen-year-old mind? Some days she practically needed an interpreter to understand what her daughter was saying, forget what she was thinking.

Still, it nagged at her. Lindsey's earnest concern for a woman she barely knew and her own inattention to the sensitive place Sara had landed herself in. Catherine closed her eyes. That sounded impersonal, cold even. She had been working with Sara for, what, going on eight years now? They'd had good times, _very_ good times, and there had been some bad times. More bad times than good. Catherine sighed—most of the bad times had sprung from arguments that Catherine had whole heartedly egged on.

She turned over again, her silk pajamas bunched at her bust and she absentmindedly smoothed the shirt out. It wasn't, if Catherine was honest with herself, something that had never happened to her. She knew as well as anyone that you couldn't control your ex, be they male or female. Eddie and Alex weren't in the same league, but the same principle applied. Not to mention the fact that despite the obvious lingering feelings that Sara, at least, was resisting, their relationship was over and done. Sara had no knowledge of the other woman's life or decisions or anything. Now the press had honed in on the case, and that wasn't Sara's fault either.

In fact, if the press and paparazzi were on the case, they would uncover the women's connection in no time. Sara stood to lose much more than her place on the case, her whole career would be destroyed. Catherine linked her fingers behind her head and sighed. None of this was Sara's fault, so why was she treating the other woman like it was?

At first, it had been Gil. She had been so certain that it had been Sara who had dumped Gil, Sara that had made him so sad. She could scratch that now. Why, though, had the idea of Sara and Gil bothered her in the first place? They'd all known that there was some kind of bond between them, something that went beyond friends and supervisor-CSI. Before the kidnapping, hadn't they both been happy? Happy was good and God knew they both deserved to be happy. So what, exactly, had riled her up? Maybe it was because she hadn't known. Would that had made a difference, being in on their little secret? Greg had known, and she was pretty sure Jim had figured it out somewhere along the way, but she'd been clueless.

She rubbed her hands over her face again and again. She had been the one all but attacking Sara the whole time. She'd been, to quote herself, going off the deep end and verbally attacking Sara, when, according to Lindsey, she probably needed a kind ear and a strong shoulder to lean against.Old habits were hard to break, especially when it came to her working relationship with the brunette. Looking at it now though, it was petty, and even worse, it was hypocritical of her. She had bent and broken rules here and there her entire career. As for Alex coming onto Sara, she had met some of her boyfriends on the scene, and it wasn't like you could control what other people did anyway.

"Hypocrite is not a good look for you," she said, her voice loud in the otherwise silent room. Sara wouldn't want an apology, but that didn't mean Catherine couldn't stop acting like an ass from here on out. She was probably skirting around some of the more touchy issues, but for now her guilt was satisfied and her decision made. That being done, Catherine closed her eyes and began to drift off.

Author's Note: Happy Saint Patrick's Day to All! Ugh I just overdid the cheerful.


	37. Chapter XXXVI: It Hits The Fan

_Chapter XXXVI_

_The Shit Hits The Fan_

The average American cannot locate Baghdad on a map but does know who the best and worst dressed celebrities of the week are. While some point to the dumbing down of entertainment and the underfunded school systems as the reason, the answer is inherently simpler. The amount of coverage, exposure and availability is vastly out of proportion: In-Touch, US Weekly, Star, National Inquirer, Rolling Stone, MTV, E!, Fuse, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, broadcast radio, satellite radio, and of course the Internet and all its innumerable boards, chats and sites. The average American rarely gives thought to the Hollywood obsession—unless of course, that average American had suddenly been thrown into the middle of it. Then, Sara mused, you fucking noticed. Of course, it wasn't the first time she'd dealt with the press. More accurately, it wasn't the first time she'd ducked the cameras. Since the press sometimes pressed detectives and CSIs for statements, she wasn't even out of practice. Still, she didn't look forward to it.

Sara's plan was simple: she couldn't bury her head in the sand completely, but she could keep her head down and hope for the best. It was a flimsy strategy at best, but what other options did she have at this point? As it turned out, the plan wasn't all that simple. She'd had to duck out the emergency exit at her apartment, take a cab and go in through the morgue's loading bay, otherwise and somewhat disturbingly known as Cadaver Alley, to avoid the press. It was an appropriate beginning for what she knew was going to be a long and Hellish night.

Because she'd come through the back, she had to wind her way around the maze of labs and layout rooms before she could get to the locker room. She was early and Swing shift was still plodding through their work. Of course since Graveyard was now working the device killings almost exclusively, Swing was hustling to keep pace with all the other cases that were still flowing in. She'd heard that a couple of the cases had been pretty interesting, actually. Nothing nearly as interesting as the device killings, but what was?

She paused when she heard her name echo down the hallway, but when she realized who was calling her, she redoubled her pace. When she heard her name, she bit the tip of her tongue and turned around, already regretting her decision to do so. David Hodges had his balding head poked out of his lab. "Sara! Just the girl I wanted to see." He smiled and waved her over.

Sara shook her head, wishing she was anywhere else. "Not now, Hodges."

The neurotic lab rat only smiled and waved her over again. "I've got something on your case, something you definitely want to see."

Sara blew out a puff of breathe and started back towards the Trace Lab."This had better be good." She followed him into the lab and mentally cursed when she remembered that she could neither sign off on nor handle evidence. She could look, but not touch. Damn.

"What have you got?" She faced him from across his main work table with a fake smile plastered on her face. Hodges was the lab's biggest gossip and she was sure he would tell and retell any and everything she said and did during this little pow-wow. There were two shirts laid out on the table. One was a plain white oxford button down and the other was a faded maroon Abercrombie & Fitch tee shirt . She made the connection in her mind: the shirts belonged to Preston Abernathy and Dedrick Marsh respectively. She frowned for a moment, as she was positive Greg had already run with the clothing.

"That's funny, Hodges, I don't recall Greg sending these in for trace analysis detail."

Hodges looked up, completely casual. "He didn't." The tech brushed an invisible piece of lint off of his lab coat. "I took it upon myself to run a test or two." He turned to retrieve a folder, "Things really backed up when I was gone, but sometimes I have a nose for these things." He handed her the folder and she opened it and focused on the printouts instead of Hodge's smirking face.

A test or two? He had run a full battery of tests on almost everything recovered from the Abernathy and Marsh scenes. Sara glanced down at her watch—shift hadn't even started yet, so when had he had time to do all that work? She shook her head as she perused the many numbers and detailed chemical workups. She didn't know and she didn't really care to ask. It was done and that was all that mattered. Frustrated by the amount of information that may or may not be relevant, she looked up. "What exactly am I looking for here?"

The balding tech turned with a much smaller sheaf of papers in his hands. "My summary report, hot off the presses." She all but yanked the pages out of his hands and perused it, looking for the answers he had alluded to.

A little over thirty seconds later, she slapped all the papers and the folder down on the counter. Her patience, already threadbare, had just had it. "Lipstick, Hodges, you called me in here for lipstick? Unless you sent that to Wendy and she has a CODIS match, it doesn't do us any good."

She turned to walk out but his voice stopped her. "The same lipstick, the same exact brand, shade and batch, on both collars. It's a light, shimmery shade which was why no one else caught it. If you think back, we had to test hundreds of shades when the guy who worked at the makeup counter at Saks started killing girls." Sara remembered the case, vividly. Now that he had her attention, he continued and motioned her over to the computer. "Archie and I set up a scanning and matching database program with over three-hundred shades. I kept the program and have actually updated it when the season changed." He preened a little. "The FBI has optioned the program."

Slightly impressed but no less impatient, Sara started tapping her foot on the tile. "And?"

He moved so she could see the screen. "Revlon Color Last Pretty in Pink." He grinned, "It's a very light color, very twelve year old girl." He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, "Y'know, I bet Catherine's daughter has the exact same shade. It's subtle, nothing flashy or risqué. Not something a model would wear."

Son of a bitch, she'd wondered how long it would take him to bring up Alex. "Hodges." She forced the word through her gritted teeth. This was not what she needed right now.

David Hodges, though, wouldn't have been able to take a hint if it was super glued to his hands. "Oh come on, Sara, it's not any of us expected _this sort of thing _from _you_. Could you get me an autograph?"

She would have laughed if he didn't sound so damn sincere. "You are way off."

He only grinned bigger. "Wait, can I get yours? Maybe both of you could sign that photo for me, as a friend."

She was quickly moving from the usual mild annoyance she experienced when she was within ten feet of David Hodges to the short-fused temperament that only Catherine and idiot drivers routinely earned. "What the hell are you talking about Hodges, forget what you've heard I haven't seen Alex Dupree on a personal basis in eight yea-"

Her words died in her throat when he brought the newspaper out of his bag. The Freemont Times was Vegas's own daily contribution to modern yellow journalism. It ranked somewhere between the debunked Weekly World News and Fox News when it came to believability in Sara's opinion. She didn't pay attention and she sure as hell didn't subscribe to it. Who in their right mind would read a paper that had run an article entitled _Sam Braun's Ghost Haunting Tangiers_? Today, Sunday's, headline was bold, brash and it turned Sara's stomach. Front page, above the fold, in vivid color, was a picture of Sara and Alex Dupree. It wasn't a red carpet photo or even a casual candid of them out on the street. She recognized the scenery around them, it had been early summer 1998 and they'd been vacationing in the South of France. Sara could feel the blood drain out of her face as she looked at it. Alex was in a bikini, if you could call the tiny swatches of clothe she'd been wearing a bikini, and she had been wearing only a little bit more. They were on the beach, tangled together, hair wet and wild, tanned arms and legs twisted together in a lover's embrace. Sara's chin had been propped on Alex's bare shoulder and her hands were splayed across Alex's flat stomach. They'd been completely caught up in each other. To the right of the picture in bold capital letters the headline was even worse: _Clark County Sheriff's Office in Bed With Enemy!_

Sara felt her stomach roll and clamp down painfully and the burning under her breastbone erupt in sudden agony. She had to grab the counter to hold herself upright while her career's ambitions, respect and privacy drained away forever.

Hodges, in some misguided attempt to please her positively chirped, "It's a really good picture of you." She was either going to faint or kill Hodges. When the room stopped spinning, she would decide.

Wendy Simms rounded the corner with a stack of sterile supplies in her arms. Her visit to the supply closet had been fruitful, but for the fact that _someone_ had taken off with the last box of gloves, and that was going to cause problems all night long. Since she had to double glove before handling every single sample, Hodges was going to have to share. Furthermore, since his "Clumsy yet buxom" comments had come to her attention, she was not above beating him in a dark corner of the lab to get what she wanted. She rounded the corner and dropped her supplies into her lab and then turned back to go to Trace.

It only took a few steps because Trace and DNA were kissing cousins, but in the time it took to go from one room to another, Wendy realized that something was very wrong. Sara Sidle was standing stock still in the middle of the lab, the morning's edition of the Fremont Times drooping limply from her hands. Wendy had visited her in the hospital after the kidnapping and she hadn't been as pale then as she was now. Her eyes, usually warm, were wide, blank and glassy. When she saw the headline and its corresponding picture, she understood why. Surely David Hodges couldn't be that stupid.

Speaking of him, Hodges looked from Wendy to Sara and back. "Is she," he motioned to Sara, "okay?" Okay, yes, he was that stupid. Any idiot, except for David Hodges apparently, could see that no, Sara was not okay. It looked like a stiff breeze could knock her completely over. Wendy took the paper, the offensive piece of tabloid trash out of Sara's hands and put it where it belonged, straight into the garbage.

At Hodges' quick and somewhat whiny, "Hey," Wendy sent him a look that could cut through steel.

"There are twenty-three quick ways to kill you in this room alone, Hodges, now cover for us." Her voice was light and almost saccharine sweet, and she could see the beads of nervous sweat break out on Hodges' shiny head as he nodded. That being done, she put her arm around Sara's shoulders, "C'mon." The fact that Sara followed her without a fight or even a word caused Wendy even more concern.

She'd known of Sara Sidle the CSI long before she'd ever met the woman. They'd both worked in the San Francisco Forensics Department, which was a very small world in what was considered a sizably big city. Friends of friends and all that, California girls had to stick together. Besides all the praise for the CSI she'd heard, she genuinely liked Sara the person. She hated that Sara was having a shit time. God forbid if any of her own exes showed up out of the blue. There should practically be a law against it. She would have said just that if Sara didn't look like she'd just had the rug jerked out from beneath her.

She sat Sara on a stool and quickly opened one of the DNA lab's many drawers. Some people kept booze, or in Greg Sanders' case, coffee, hidden away in their desks. Wendy was far more practical about things. Some emergencies called for heavy duty chocolate. While some girls kept things simple with a Snickers or a Milky Way, when Wendy wanted comfort, she went all the way. She pulled out the bag and set it on the counter. The chocolate was imported and decadent, and exactly what Sara needed. After two pieces the color started tocreep back into Sara's face, which was a relief. After another bite, Sara lowered her head into her hands and grumbled out a thanks.

Wendy popped a piece into her own mouth and closed her eyes at the pleasure it brought. It had been scientifically studied, chocolate was often more pleasurable than sex. Was there anything chocolate couldn't do? Wendy doubted it.

After a minute Sara looked up, "Thanks."

Wendy crossed her arms over her chest. "You're welcome, now come on, don't let some sleazy two-bit paparazzo or worse, Hodges, get to you. You're from San Francisco, you'll make us all look bad. That coaxed a smile out of Sara. Wendy grinned too. "So are you going to be alright now or should I break out reinforcements?"

Sara chuckled. "One more piece then I have to stop or I'll have to add an extra mile onto my run."

Wendy nodded sagely and helped herself to another piece herself. "Wouldn't want that, we both have great bodies, but upkeep is a bitch."

Unbeknownst to the laughing Sara and Wendy, there was another meeting going on. There was no chocolate in Gil Grissom's office, though. There was, however, another copy of the Sunday Fremont Times and six very unhappy people. The sheriff, ADA Seth Ritchen and Assistant Director Conrad Ecklie were having a power meeting with Gil Grissom, Jim Brass and Catherine Willows. The subject of this meeting was, of course, Sara Sidle, Alexandra Dupree and damage control.

Ritchen slumped in his seat, the one furthest away from the Tarantella tank, "The DA is so far up my ass on this one, he could check my colon for polyps." Catherine curled her lip at Ritchen's disgusting turn of phrase but said nothing. He was a letch, but he was also one of the best ADAs in the state. "Dupree's lawyer has been cock blocking me every step, I haven't even been able to talk to the woman yet."

Sheriff Atwater grunted in agreement. "Where the hell are we on this thing anyway, Jim?" He looked at Capitan Brass with an unflinching eye. "Is Dupree our killer and what is this?" He drilled his right index finger into the newspaper picture and started tapping. "What the hell is going on here?"

Ecklie cleared his throat. "I would _love _to hear something about that, Grissom. What is Sidle thinking?"

Catherine jumped in before Grissom could even process the question. "The press is running with some fluff that hardly even matters anymoe. This photo," She looked down at the paper Ecklie had all but slung across Grissom's desk and scowled, "Is around ten years old. It was taken before Sidle transferred to Vegas and she's assured me that she had no prior knowledge of it even existing." She looked at each face before continuing, "Alexandra Dupree and Sara Sidle hadn't had contact with each other for nearly eight years until now.The press is sensationalizing something that barely even exists. Besides, she hasn't been on the case since Dupree came under suspicion. You can check the log sheets. She's not on the case. There is no conflict, or misconduct on Sara or anyone's part, and we don't need to run around with our tails between our legs acting like there is."She fell silent and for a moment no one said anything. Ecklie, Brass and Grissom all gave her slightly surprised looks. It was the first time in anyone's recent memory that Catherine had defended Sara in any shape form or fashion.

Ritchen, after a moment's consideration, shook it off. "It doesn't matter now. Because now the entire metropolitan area thinks that the entire PD is in cahoots with her on this. It's the Paris Hilton fiasco all over again, only this time it's our asses in the frying pan." Distractedly, he ran a hand through his dark hair. "I don't care if Sara Sidle screws the President if it's on her own time. When it starts screwing with my case, though, I have to care." Catherine winced again. Despite his elegance in the courtroom, Ritchen had an uncensored loose cannon mouth in private. "First she's screwing you," he threw a casual hand towards Grissom, "and now she's screwing this model.I mean, is there anyone other then me this chick isn't screwing around with? I don't care if she's a lezzie, a slut or a nun, but we have got to say _something. _Our asses are out in the wind on this and we're staring down the barel of an election year.Beside him, Atwater, up for reelection in a little over a year, nodded emphatically.

Catherine, almost at the end of her patience, watched in disbelief as Grissom sat silently. Beside her Jim was silent too, but it wasn't because he had nothing to say. The older detective was shaking, and probably doing all he could to bite his tongue. The sheriff was no help. "Christ on a pogo stick. We've got reporters camped outside from all over the country. Sex, murder and scandal, it's safe to say the Mayor is having a hissy."The mayor, also up for re-election was, in most of the PD's opinion, a moron. He sighed. "Well, Grissom, what are your plans? How are you planning to handle this _situation_?"

Why, Catherine brooded, was the only time she'd decided to be on Sara's side, the one time when it was to her advantage to be against the other woman? It was obvious that Atwater and Ecklie, and definitely the DA's Office were ready to throw her under the bus. Then there was Grissom—the man was a genius but politics were not his forte. Not to mention the fact that he, as Richen had so _politely_ pointed out, was Sara's ex and that wasn't the most unbiased position to be in. Damn this case was getting sticky and complicated fast. Grissom's only comment was that he would handle Sara. Great, that sounded wonderfully unbiased. She'd seen the look on Richen's face and would just bet that some cheesy porno soundtrack had started up in his mind. To quote her daughter, eew.

After a few more details and a promise of a press conference from Jim were covered, Ecklie showed the Sheriff and ADA out. As soon as they were out the door, Catherine slumped into a chair, deflated. "Basically we should all bend over because this is all going to end with us getting reamed from all angles." She didn't care what the two men thought of her slightly off color comment; it was true.

Beside her, Jim sat down too. "I'm going to talk to 'Fia when I get back. We're going to be up to our necks in calls until we get that press conference over and done with in the morning. Jim sighed. "What are you going to do about this situation with Sara, Gil?" He rubbed his brow and forehead over and over. "You can't punish her for this."

Catherine nodded in agreement. "Alex Dupree is Eddie with better legs and way more cash, Gil. Sara's already got it coming from all sides. We need to help her out." Grissom held up a hand and they fell quiet.

"I have no intention of penalizing Sara for something that is out of her control." He paused for a breath and a thought. "She is going to have to be completely off the case, though. I'm going to reassign her tonight." Catherine winced a little; Sara wouldn't like that one bit. Even more surprising, Catherine didn't want to be the one to break the news to her. When cases got personal, you never wanted to give them up. Not to mention the fact that even if Sara had been eyes only on the case, she was knowledgeable and had acted completely professional. More professional, Catherine could begrudgingly admit, then she would have been.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "We've got to nip this Dupree thing in the bud. Do you think we should have Sara give a statement?"

Catherine propped her chin on her hand and thought about it. "And give the press a chance to grill her? Forget that. Just point out that while there was a friendship several years ago, it's over and that's the end of the story."

She hoped it was, at least.

Author's Note: I hope everyone had a nice holiday weekend!


	38. Chapter XXXVII: Temper Temper

_Chapter XXXVII_

_Temper Temper_

The chocolate induced calm that Wendy had helped her gain faded quickly. It had only taken hearing that Sheriff Atwater, ADA Ritchen and Ecklie had been in the building to completely erode her composure. Not only, she knew, in the building, but in Grissom's office. A visit from the upper brass was never a good thing, but tonight it was a personal disaster of epic proportions. Someone call FEMA or better yet, take the 'Kick Me' sign off her back. She would happily process a working meat packing plant rather then deal with Conrad Ecklie right now. Not that she ever looked forward to her heart to hearts with her personal pain in the ass.

She rounded into the locker room and tried to shake off her mood. She could handle anything that happened tonight. Anything and anyone who gave her problems would get a problem of their own and her name was Sara Sidle. She rolled her neck and repeated that over and over in her head. While she was psyching herself up she noticed the workplace safety board had been wiped clean. Someone, she hedged her bets on day shift, had blown their almost three months worth of accident free days. She chuckled in spite of herself: there went the barbecue. She smirked as she opened her locker–how Sofia had worked with Days on a daily basis for so long without losing her mind was a mystery to Sara.

She shook her head at that thought and picked up her holstered department-issued Glock from it's place on the shelf. She could smell the gun oil from its last cleaning through the leather and woven Kevlar holder. A friend had told—lectured, really—her about her gun. It wasn't a truly effective tool unless her use of it was instinctive. Drawing her gun had to be an automatic reaction on a hot scene or she wouldn't have a prayer. That was why she visited the PD gun range three days a week. She had wanted to know exactly how to handle the deadly weapon she wore strapped to her hip every night, and she did. She never had a problem with her annual firearms requalification, and she could also shoot through the center of a quarter from sixty yards. Of course, the mocking voice in the back of her head reminded her, all the shooting skills in the world couldn't help you when you didn't have your gun with you—or worse, when you were too surprised to even think about your gun.

Hazy images swam into semi-focus, scattered shards of memories from _that night_. The events had been pieced back together using what little she could remember and the evidence, but she wanted more. She rested her now aching head and let her loose fist thud against the cool metal of the locker. She wanted to know what was going through Natalie Davis's mind that night. What the hell had the young woman been thinking when she'd tasered her? When they had fought, what had been going through Natalie's twisted mind when she'd left her underneath that car in the middle of nowhere? Those were questions she would probably never have the answers to. It wasn't that they hadn't asked them, over and over and over again. Natalie just wasn't answering. She hadn't even blinked when Sara had walked into the small interview room at the sanitarium. The woman who had almost killed her hadn't looked like a monster. She had looked like a scrawny girl in orange coveralls that were too big for her. Her eyes had been glassy and vacant, her face puffy from drugs and institution food. The restraints had only been window dressing; Natalie's body wasn't going anywhere . The only thing she would say, on the far and few between times she had spoke since her arrival, were lines from her ventriloquist father's song. Natalie Davis, the Miniature Killer, had gone somewhere else. Somewhere far in the unreachable and lonely parts of her mind. Gone with all the answers that Sara needed.

"He-ey Sunshine." She stiffened at the sudden vocal incursion on her thoughts but she didn't jump or scream. Which was a small victory in it's self. She only looked over at the doorway where Nick Stokes stood, grinning.

She smiled a little, "Hey, Nicky."

The Texan made his way over with his usual mix of athletic grace and somewhat cocky strut. He playfully elbowed at her as he opened and rummaged into his neighboring locker. Nick whistled through his teeth as he checked his own weapon and ID. "Press is beating at the doors tonight." He looked over at her and she recognized the look in his eyes: brother, friend and confidante. She could always count on Nick.

"Are they giving you problems, Sar?"

She blew out a sigh and shrugged, "Nothing I can't handle." The lie sounded flimsy even to her own ears.

Beside her Nick chuckled, "I don't think there are many things you _can't_ handle." He leaned against the lockers, "Just because you can doesn't mean you have to. I drove by your complex today." He let that sentence hang in the air but they both knew what he wasn't saying. Nick had seen the crowd of press that was camped out right bellow her window. "You know I have a guest bedroom that you're more than welcome to." That did make her smile and that only encouraged him to. "Big backyard for Riley to play in and I'll even refrain from grilling while you're there." She went ahead and laughed because that was what she knew he wanted.

Sara sat down on the hard bench and tugged Nick down to sit beside her. They both nudged their lockers closed with their feet.

"I can't run away from the press. They'll find me and then your house will be swarmed."

Nick shrugged, "We'll bounce you around then. Between me, Greg, Warrick and everyone, they'll never find you."

Sara only wished that was true. "We don't know how long this is going to go. Their interest might fade tonight or three months from now. As long as Alex is in Vegas and especially while she's under investigation, my life is going to be a sideshow."

They fell silent for a minute, and then Nick started to speak again. He sounded more serious now. "Alex Dupree." He let out a low whistle. "She's the one who sent you flowers, huh."

Sara stared down at the floor. She and Nick hadn't had debates or even conversations on this particular subject. The few times the subject of homosexuality and alternative lifestyles came up, the best Nick had come up with was that he simply didn't get it. As her private life was private, she had never tried to explain it to him. She looked at him, telling herself she was ready for anything he had to say, and knowing that she really wasn't.

Nick twiddled his thumbs for a minute. "So are we talking a three step drinking binge, crying jag then moving on break-up or something more serious?"

Sara blinked, she hadn't been prepared for that. She pondered how much she should tell him. " We were together awhile and it wasn't a pretty break-up. There was definitely drinking and some crying. She was half the reason I came to Vegas and now she's here too." Sara sighed and shrugged uncomfortably and waited for him to say something, anything.

"She broke your heart, huh?"

Sara shrugged, still wondering exactly what was going through her friend's mind. "Yeah."

There was more silence, then Nick squared his shoulders and Sara prepared for the worst. "So I can't hit her because she's a girl, but I can be your bodyguard."

Sara couldn't have been more surprised if he'd started riding a unicycle and singing the North Korean National Anthem. "Um, thank you?"

Nick chuckled, "Don't get me wrong, I still don't get the whole gay thing. I mean I really don't get that _Brokeback Mountain, _ya'll are here and you're queer stuff." Sara nodded mutely and Nick continued, "But you're Sara. What the hell would I do without you around? Besides, I already sort of got a call about this whole situation."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Ecklie already?"

Nick let out a loud laugh. "Not quite. Karen read about it on the Internet, apparently, and immediately called me. She woke me up in the middle of the day and yelled at me. Body parts were threatened."

Sara raised a brow. "Karen—your sister, Karen?"

Nick nodded soberly. "It turns out that Al, have I told you about Al?"

Sara pursed her lips in thought for a moment. "Pediatrician Al, the apparent love of her life, yeah, you mentioned him."

Nick ran his hands over his close cropped hair. "As it turns out, Al is short for Allison."

All Sara could come up with was, "Oh."

Nick threw his arm over her shoulder. "So I have my marching orders from one of my favorite girls to watch over another one of my favorite girls, and you know me, anything to make a lady smile."

Sara let out a snort of laughter. There were obviously several issues that Nick and his large Republican family from Texas were working through, but in the end, she knew it would all turn out. Nick was Prince Charming and he had the Fairy Tale family and one day he would get his happy ending. She gave him a one armed hug. "I will keep that in mind, Nicky, now let's go rob Greg of his coffee before shift starts." She was rewarded with a classic Stokes smile.

She would have declared her mood completely recovered and going strong, but for the fact that Grissom was standing in the hallway beside his office, obviously waiting for her. Sara sighed; it was going to be a roller coaster night.

* * *

Gilbert Grissom had been having a rather turbulent day himself, and he was positive that it was not going to improve as the night went on. He'd known that Sara was in the locker room, and rather than go in, he'd decided to wait for her exit. She came out with Nick and as soon as she saw him, her face went cold and stiff. He could almost hear the loud clatter of the shutters going down in her eyes. He had been getting this treatment, the same treatment Sara used with suspects, since _that_ night. She motioned Nick on and the younger man reluctantly left her. How had he become the bad guy here? Gil frowned and waited until Sara was closer to walk back into his office. He knew she would follow just like he knew she would leave the door open. It was, Gil mused, an unwritten rule now. He and Sara were never alone, and if they were the only two in a room, the door was always open. He sat behind his desk. Not because he felt particularly formal, but he knew that Sara would want something tangible between them, separating them. A physical object to break up the vast amount of history and space that had come between them. It was space, he knew, that was full to the brim with things she wouldn't say, things he wished he'd said and things neither of them would mention. It was better this way, but it still hurt.

Sara came into his office, her face blank and her posture rigid. He knew Sara, could read her every mood. He recognized the shirt she wore, it was one of his favorites. He could smell the light powdered musk of her deodorant and the alluring spice of her herbal conditioner. Her presence brought an ache with it, one that he both craved and despised. Everything had changed. They were no longer friends, no longer lovers, they could still work together, but there was nothing beyond that. She hadn't spared him anything, but that was what he had wanted.

Gil sat in his chair, "Sit down, Sara." She did sit, but she didn't relax or even smile.

"What can I help you with tonight, Grissom?" Her voice, usually warm and almost musical, sounded cool and clipped. She was stressed, he could tell, because despite her conscious efforts, her coastal California accent was stronger, more pronounced.

He needed to get this over with. This, of course, entailed several things. There were many independent and equally vexing issues at hand and he had to address them all. The logical starting point was, of course, her involvement with Alexandra Dupree. Her previous relationship with the woman made it impossible for Sara to be neutral.

"Why didn't you tell me about her?" She hadn't, in the two years they'd been together and in the decade they'd known each other, ever mentioned the other woman. Sara was entitled to her privacy, he knew that, but he couldn't help but ask.

Across from him, Sara only shrugged. "It never seemed that important."

Gil Grissom was anything but stupid. He knew he was being dismissed, and that was something he could not allow, not this time. "Well, it's important now." Sara shifted in her seat and raised a thin brow, but said nothing. He folded his hands on his cluttered desktop. "I need to know where your loyalties lie." As soon as the words had come out of his mouth, he knew he had misspoke.

"My loyalty?" Sara's voice was harsh and it sounded almost forced. "I work for the LVPD and the lab, just like I always have."

Grissom found himself rubbing his forehead, an unconscious action to ward away the migraine that he could feel coming on. "I know that, the higher ups—"

"Ecklie." Sara's voice was positively glacial. She crossed her legs across from him and leaned back in the chair. "Don't mince words, Gilbert, I know Ecklie, Atwater and Ritchen just left."

He nodded, slightly annoyed at how fast gossip traveled, "Then you understand my position. I'm going to have to reassign you." He shuffled through some papers on his desk. "You and—" He paused for a moment to think, "Nick can take the suspicious circs out in Henderson." She took the indicated assignment slip, but didn't look especially happy about it.

"Anything else?" Again, her words were to the point and completely devoid of the warmth he associated with her. He didn't want it to be this way, but what else could he do?

"I think it goes without saying that you need to avoid the press and Miss Dupree."

Sara's eyes narrowed and he watched her body stiffen. "You said it anyway."

Grissom knew he was walking a very thin line, which was why he'd never enjoyed his job as a supervisor. "Sara, this is just policy. It's nothing personal. I would ask the same from Catherine or Warrick or anyone else."

Gil Grissom would freely admit that his people skills were subpar. He would also confess to the fact that he had made several miscalculations during his two-year relationship with Sara. It did not, however, take an expert to see and understand that he had just made a critical, irreversible error in judgment.

Sara stood up so quickly that her chair teetered on two legs for a moment, threatening to fall. "No, you wouldn't." Grissom opened his mouth, but Sara cut him off before he could get the first sound of a syllable out. "You didn't recuse Catherine the several times that Sam Braun came under investigation, even when it cost a murder conviction. You let her work Eddie's supposed rape case and even though you gave his murder to me, you let her run all over me." She threw up her hand to cut him off again, "Not to say that Catherine is the only one. When Warrick was way too close to that drive by case in his neighborhood, you let him continue." She let out a breath. "This isn't the lab policy, Gil, it's you."

"It's not like that."

Sara's dark eyes met his and he could see the fury blazing them. "I didn't say a word when we found you_ cuddled_ up with that Dominatrix while she was under investigation, any of the three times it happened. The minute, though, I get in a tight spot, it turns into rules and policy and politics."

He winced because her voice's pitch and volume would certainly send her venomous words bouncing down the halls.

Sara didn't say anything else though. She threw up her hands and turned. "You know what, forget it. I have a case to work."

Grissom watched her storm out and slam the door; and all he could bring himself to do was remember that this was all for _her_ own good. That didn't make it seem right, or hurt any less.

* * *

Catherine had gone to each and every CSI, tech, and aide in the building and had confiscated at least eleven different copies of the _Fremont Times_. She had been somewhat surprised, at first, to find out that David Hodges didn't have one. Before she could comment on his sudden achievement in tact, Wendy informed her that she had already trashed his copy. Unfortunately Hodges wasn't the only person who had found the article _interesting_. Three of the copies had the large full color photo clipped out. Even when she and Sara were on the outs, which was more often than not, she wouldn't have done that. Disgusted down to her core, she contemplated calling Jim to make sure all the copies that had found their way over to the PD headquarters were made to disappear too. After a moment, with phone in hand, she decided that he was probably already three steps ahead of her on that front. She had noticed that Ritchen had taken a copy with him. She shuddered and hoped like hell that the sleazy creep was taking it for professional reasons. Then again, Catherine almost gagged, better Ritchen than Ecklie.

She balanced the dozen papers, her cell phone and her disappointingly empty coffee cup and hoped her arms didn't fail her. She could see her office door and was almost there when a door slammed behind her. She turned just in time to see Sara storming out of Grissom's office. Catherine frowned; Grissom had obviously delivered his message with his usual flair of social awkwardness and dead philosopher quotes. "Sara." The obviously furious brunette didn't even blink. Determined to stop Sara before the press or worse, Ecklie, saw her, she juggled her cell and cup and reached out to touch Sara's arm as she passed. "Sara."

The brunette jerked to a stop and turned. Catherine was shocked to see tears on the brink of falling in Sara's eyes. "Jesus are you, okay?" She tugged on her arm. "Come on in my office and cool down." What worried her more than the temper or the tears was the fact that Sara followed her with no argument. Catherine closed the door behind them so Sara could have privacy to cry or vent or just sit quietly. She threw the papers on her desk and sat down in the chair beside Sara. "You okay?" Sara's attention, though, was not on her. Catherine followed the other woman's gaze and winced.

"It's not what it looks like." She might as well have said nothing at all. Sara's eyes had gone almost completely black and her cheeks and neck were scalded red with anger. Her hand gripped the edge of the arm rest and Catherine could see the veins pop.

"I hope you're happy." Sara's voice was barely above a whisper.

Catherine blinked, "Sara, I—"

Sara didn't let her finish. "You've wanted this case since it broke and now you have it." She stood up, visibly shaking with anger. "I have a scene to go work."

Catherine got to her feet. "You're not leaving like this." Sara turned back around and fixed her with a look that made Catherine want to take a step back. Sara's eyes flickered and Catherine was momentarily mesmerized. The brown of Sara's eyes contained both arctic ice and hell fire. It was like looking at a frozen sun.

"I know," Sara's voice was strangely calm, "that we're not friends, but I didn't think—" She stopped and silently tightened her fists over and over again. "I never thought you would do this to me." Sara shot a glare at the papers. "Everything that's happened and I thought—God, I never thought you would stoop this low."

Catherine put her hands on her hips. "Excuse me? I think you need to get your facts straight."

Sara ran her fingers through her loose hair, pushing it away from her face. "Oh, I know my facts. I know that you are an amoral," she took a step closer so the two women were almost nose to nose, "overly ambitious _bitch_." She stepped back and threw her hands up. "And I am obviously," Sara grabbed one of the papers, "just here for entertainment purposes right now." She threw the papers at Catherine and they both watched them flutter to the floor. "So I'm out of here."

Catherine was silent for a second, the second that it took for Sara to wrench the door open, then said the only thing that came to mind: "Are you out of your damn _mind_? I hope you are because otherwise I am going to love getting your ass fired."

Sara turned back around, her body half out the door. "That's you, Cat, always finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow." She shook her head, "Y'know, maybe I am out of my mind. Maybe I _just went off the deep end_, but I think I am entitled."

Catherine raised her chin. "That's your problem, Sidle. You think the world and we owe something. You think you're entitled because you're fucking the right person at the right time. Wake up, Princess, the world doesn't work that way, and I'm sure as hell not going to let you walk away from this."

Sara took the extra step that put her in the hall. "Just try to stop me."

Then Sara was gone and Catherine sat back down, completely numb with anger, and, when she finally got her temper in check, dread of whatever happened next. It wouldn't be good, and this time she wouldn't lie to herself: it was at least partially her fault.

"Fuck."

Author's Note: This update would have come sooner but life, computer failure, and a full sized truck impacting my drivers side door delayed it a bit.


	39. Chapter XXXVIII: Paint The Town Red

_Chapter XXXVIII_

_Paint The Town Red_

"It isn't like you to go out on a Sunday, K. I mean, don't you have class tomorrow?"

Her roommate was far too nosy for her own good. Hadn't the woman ever heard that curiosity had killed the cat? Bobbi didn't know it, but she was very lucky. If she hadn't needed the red head's half of the rent she would have cheerfully killed the little drama queen a long time ago.

In Vegas, nothing—not even Sunday—was sacred. The Lord might have rested but the city that had cornered the market on sin did not. The endless partying didn't break or even pause for a breath, it just rolled on and on into infinity. That was, of course, if you knew where to be and when to be there. While all the clubs were open for business, there was only one place to be on Sunday. Vibe's Sunday nights were not to be missed. The social hot spot would be packed, wall to wall, with young, hot-blooded party-goers. The cover was pricey, but that was why she had brought her stoplight red, curve-hugging, and hooker-short dress out of her cramped closet. The skimpy clothes combined with her fashionably punky hair and a couple seconds of flirting would get her anything and everything she wanted tonight. What she wore underneath the gloss was more than worth it. Bobbi, like the rest of Vegas, had no idea what she had on under her dress.

"Oh my God, have you heard about this Alex Dupree thing?" Her roommate's voice was muffled because Bobbi had walked into her own room.

"What?" It wasn't as if she hadn't heard the other woman, it just seemed prudent to play dumb.

Bobbi came back into what could loosely be considered a living room with something small and glimmering in her hand. "I mean, you just had her over for TAN like a week ago. It's insane! They're saying she may have killed Dedrick Marsh, can you believe it?"

She opened her mouth but was interrupted before the first word when Bobbi showed her what she'd brought out. "Wear these earrings, K, they'll look good against your dark hair." The other woman leaned closer to hook one in her earlobe. "Wow, that's clunky, you're not wearing that are you?"

She stepped back, reclaiming her personal space, asking, "What that?" She took one of the large, dangling silver hoops out of Bobbi's hand and put it in her earlobe without argument. They did look good.

"That necklace, all those rings look weird. Is this one of those feminist things?"

She hooked the second hoop into her ear. "Not exactly, but it does make a statement, though, don't you think?"

Bobbi shrugged. "I guess." The drama major settled herself on the lumpy couch. "Hey do you want me to go with you?"

That stopped her fast. "Why? I thought you had an audition tomorrow."

Bobbi shrugged. "I'll be okay, it's just you know, with all the murders, it isn't safe for you alone."

She smiled. "Oh, come on, _guys _are the ones getting killed. I'll be fine. I thought they had Dupree locked up, anyway."

Bobbi looked uneasy, but finally shrugged. "All right, just take your mace and your cell." She scooped up her keys, complete with pepper spray, on her way out of the apartment. "Done and done, don't wait up."

She knew, logically, that it would probably be best to wait until the excitement died down. She should wait until another story of money, sex, scandal and murder caught the public's attention. She left the building and merged into the light foot traffic, heading to the bus stop. The press and the cops and everyone in Vegas were so busy chasing after Alexandra Dupree that no one would ever look her way. Why would they? She was too smart, too careful and too damn good at what she did to be noticed. They would never catch her. The Las Vegas Police could call in the National Guard, the FBI and every private detective in the world and they would still never catch her.

She caught the bus that would eventually take her to Fremont and to Vibe. It was only half full, locals and a few tourists. No one looked up when she boarded. The only person who made eye contact with her was the driver and that was only to confirm that the bus-pass she flashed belonged to her. She was a chameleon—no, better: she was a wolf among the sheep. No, she smiled to her reflection in the bus's window, she was a vigilante. All in all, she was no different from an oncologist, cutting the cancer away from healthy flesh. The only way to stop heinous crimes, like rape, was to prevent them from ever happening in the first place. In a city rampant with moral rot and ethical decay she carried the rape vaccine between her legs.

* * *

"Here you go, Baby Bro, your first steps into a brave new world." Adam elbowed Josh and snatched the slick, newly minted driver's license out of his older brother's hands.

It was, in both of their opinions, a work of art. Adam's picture had flawlessly been integrated onto a card with their cousin's information. The card had been a last minute gift from Justin to Adam before he had shipped out to Iraq. The brothers had taken it to a guy at WLVU, Justin's college, and with a small monetary donation, Adam went from almost seventeen to a cool and legal twenty-one. A combination of genetics, a rigorous workout schedule and carefully selected clothes helped him look the part. Even the watermark picture of Justin in the bottom right hand corner of the ID looked close enough to be him.

Adam grinned. "It's perfect." He held it up to the light for a more thorough inspection. There were no cracks, bubbles, creases, peeling corners or anything else that would give away the fact that it was a forgery. The c note had been more than worth it.

"Damn, stop ogling it and put it in your wallet already."

Adam kicked the seat in front of him in retaliation. He was riding into the city with some of his brother's buddies. "Are you sure you can get us into the club, Dozer?" The question was directed at the solidly built blond in the passenger seat.

Dozer, at six feet and some inches and two hundred pounds, more than lived up to his name. He scoffed, "For the third time, yes. Make your Mini-Me cram it, Josh. God, he's like one of those excited yappy dogs. Yip, yip, yip, yip all night long."

Adam shut his mouth without the aid of his brother's punch to the shoulder. He occupied himself, instead, with thoughts of all the action that was about to be coming his way. Everyone knew how wild college girls got and Vibe was the place to be tonight.

Dozer hadn't been too far off on his 'Mini-Me' comment. He and Josh (and Justin) did look a lot alike. They had the same stubbornly wavy dark hair and tan from the desert sun. Their shared love of baseball gave them fit and well toned muscles that sat very well on their tall frames. If not for the several years' difference between them, he and Adam would have been twins—triplets if you counted Justin. Adam wasn't conceited, not as much as Josh was at least, but he knew he looked good. He would have to beat the buck-wild, half naked hotties off of him with a stick. He'd see plenty of tits and maybe, if he was lucky, get some ass too.


	40. Chapter XXXIX: Relapse

_Chapter XXXIX_

_Relapse_

Complete, unadulterated, undiluted and uncontrollable anger got Sara Sidle through the halls and back to her locker. It carried her past the labs, out the morgue and back to her Prius. It wasn't until she had already pulled out of the parking lot and into Sunday night traffic that cool logical thought broke back through the thick red mist that had drifted over her brain.

"Oh God."

She ran what had just happened back through her head and then she did it again and again. Everything she'd said, everything she'd done.

"Oh God."

She had thrown everything she could think of in Gil's face. She had even brought up the doubly taboo subject of Lady Heather. To top it all off, she had questioned and criticized his actions and decisions as supervisor._ He was her supervisor_ and she had—she couldn't even think about it. Sara put on her blinker and pulled into the first parking lot she saw, she was going to be sick.

When she was safely parked, she ran both hands through her hair and hung her head until it touched the steering wheel. Cold sweat popped up on the back of her neck and the now familiar pain of what she was sure was an ulcer began to grind under her sternum. Her hands shook as she ran them through her hair over and over again. Her breathing was becoming shallow and her chest tightened. Sara's brain registered the fact that she was hyperventilating, but she just couldn't seem to catch her breath.

As if her run in with Grissom hadn't been bad enough, then there had been Catherine.

"Oh God."

If Catherine didn't get her fired, she would surely kill her.

"You've done it this time. You have really fucking done it this time." Sara shook her head at her own verbal reprimand. She had called Catherine, Catherine "Ball Buster" Willows, a bitch. Not only a bitch, oh no, she had called her an amoral and ambitious bitch. Her PEAP counselor had told her that she had some self destructive issues, but this? This was like walking into a match factory wearing a dynamite vest.

Outside of her complete and utter loss of sanity while dealing with Grissom and her attempted suicide by Catherine, she had walked out on her job. She had never in her life just walked away. She had left Nick, and the entire team, shorthanded. It was unprecedented, unthinkable even. She had already taken her cell phone off of her belt and was halfway to hitting the number for Greg's speed dial when she realized what she was doing. She couldn't call Greg, undeniably her best friend. He was at work, where she was supposed to be. Plus, Sara scowled at herself, he didn't need to be dragged into the mess she had made of this entire situation, her life. After a moment of thinking, she thumped her head against the hybrid's steering wheel. All of her friends were working, either at the lab or the PD.

She had reached a new personal low, which was saying something for her. She was sitting in a drive through wedding chapel's tiny parking lot with no one in all of Vegas she could safely turn to. The irony of the situation didn't escape her or help matters.

Then an idea started to form in her head. It probably wasn't the brightest idea she'd ever had, or even the most well thought out plan in history. There was, in fact, a very good chance that it would fail publicly, spectacularly and utterly. Unfortunately, she didn't have any other ideas. She wasn't alone in Vegas, not even now. There was one other person in the city that was in almost the exact same position she was in.

Sara started the car again and headed towards the Paris.

Graveyard had just started and the Vegas night was mid-swing into its usual festivities. The strip was glowing and people were everywhere. Everyone had somewhere to be, something to do. She passed clubs with lines of people outside of them and found herself frowning. They'd thrown her off the case, the biggest case of the year and she wasn't allowed near it. What worried her more was the fact that the case, the murders, were nowhere near over. She skimmed over one of the club's lines when she stopped at a red light. They all looked so _young_. She had been young like that once. Well, she'd never even owned a tiny strapless red dress—it looked like the woman was about to burst out of it—but she had seen her fair share of night life. Nothing like Alex had seen and done, of course.

Alex, the woman she knew very damn well she needed to avoid at all costs. She was also the only friendly face she knew in the metro area that wasn't carrying a badge. Sara switched lanes carefully and watched the helter-skelter traffic, but her mind was elsewhere and when. She needed to see Alex alone. She didn't want lawyers or assistants or cops or CSIs there. There were private things they had to talk about. Sara scowled—they? She needed to talk to Alex and she wasn't sure exactly why. The only thing her mind could muster up was because she just needed to. Sara wasn't sure exactly what she was doing, but she had already thrown her job, and possibly her entire career out the window, she might as well go for broke. It was Las Vegas, after all.

She went by the Paris once, and decided that it would be in her best interest to go in the front. The press had been pushed back to keep business flowing and if she played her cards right, she would blend right in with the people coming in and out. It was just like before when she had taken pictures of the crowd at The Lady Luck Luxury Motel.

After flashing her ID at the valet, she parked her car in the garage herself, and hoped nobody had run her plate numbers. She took off her sidearm and shoved it into the glove box along with her laminated ID. She wasn't CSI Sidle tonight; in fact, considering what she had done, she may never be a CSI in Vegas again. She rummaged around and found one of Nick's discarded black baseball caps. She shoved her hair through the back opening in an impromptu pony tail and pulled the brim down low over her eyes. She was Jane Doe for the evening. Halfway through the garage, she found a discarded Casino quarter bucket. She dropped some spare change in it, and she was instantly Jane Doe Gambler which was even better. The press didn't even give her a second look. Then again, she wasn't with a posse of cops and she was fully dressed, there was no reason to recognize her.

The desk clerk was going to be slightly more challenging. It occurred to Sara as she walked towards the opulent check-in desk, that right then would have been a nice time to have her CSI ID. She only had one chance at this and her only hope hinged on a years old memory. Her plan had more holes in it then a sieve.

The desk clerk was a thirty-something year old ebony skinned man whose name tag said David. His name tag also informed her that he was that evening's concierge. Sara tugged at the brim of her cap again. "Here goes."

She walked up to the desk, hands firmly in her pockets. David held up a finger, signaling her to wait just a moment. She waited and sized him up. He'd probably been in the business a while. He didn't read like he was a college hire in. He'd probably started as a valet when he was eighteen. Working nights had probably jaded him to all kinds of Vegas shenanigans. He wasn't going to be an easy man to pull one over on.

He finished up whatever it was he'd been doing and turned to her with a professional smile on his face. "Welcome to the Paris, the most magnificent palace in Las Vegas. I'm David, how can I help you tonight, mademoiselle?"

She forced a smile of her own. "I just need you to place a call to a guest for me, please."

He nodded. "Name and room number please." She felt a bead of sweat slide down her spine. This was where it could all come crashing down around her. "Jane Walchesky, she's in a private suite."

It took less than half a second for David's face to go from politely helpful to completely serious. "I'm sorry, she's not taking visitors this evening."

Jane Walchesky was the name that Alex used when traveling. Jane was her middle name and Walchesky was her maternal grandmother's maiden name; Alexandra Dupree only rarely listed herself as a guest at any hotel.

"Please call up and inform her that," Sara paused for a moment, as she hadn't done this in years, "that Sahara Sun is here to see her." David didn't look impressed or convinced. Sara sighed, "Please." David relented, and she wasn't sure if it was because she had named off all of the code names or if he followed the tabloids, but he did. She watched him pick up the house phone and dial a series of numbers. She didn't listen to him announce himself or her, she just watched his face. She knew her idea had panned out when his brows lifted. She was in.

David hung up the phone and inclined his head. "I apologize. I didn't realize who you were. Please, I'll escort you up to the suite."

The elevator ride and short walk to the suite door was almost identical to the one she had made before. Only this time Sofia Curtis wasn't with her and she wasn't sure if that was for better or worse. Then again, Catherine wasn't with her either this time and that was definitely a good thing. She hadn't been alone with Alex in—she paused to think. The elevator went from the ground floor to the top and that gave her ample time to think about things she hadn't allowed herself to ponder in years. She and Alex hadn't been alone together since that day in the hospital where Sara had broke it off completely. Less than a week later she had been in Vegas. There had been no in-between period, no time to grieve over her broken heart, she hadn't allowed herself that _weakness_. She had moved to Vegas and wiped the slate clean with one fast swipe. At least she thought she had. Obviously she had missed a few steps in between somewhere. Otherwise she wouldn't be here now, running back to Alex the first chance she got.

She could feel David's discrete gaze on her back. Now that she was here and headed up to Alex's suite, reality started to set in. She had done exactly the last thing she should have done. She was going to visit the woman and former lover she had shared the front page with. _"CSI and suspect share romantic evening in suite, details at eleven." _Her stomach started rolling as they reached the door. She shouldn't have come. Before she could say so to David, before David could even raise his hand to knock, the door opened and Sara's escape was squashed before she'd even formulated a plan.

Alex smiled at David and raised her hand, revealing several folded hundred dollar bills between two long, elegant fingers. "Thank you, David, that will be all." It was part tip, but mostly bribe. Sara couldn't tell exactly how much it was, but figured the amount wasn't as important as the assurance that it bought complete silence. David quickly tucked the undisclosed amount away in a pocket, excused himself and left. They were alone, she and Alex were alone.

Sara shuffled her feet and re-crossed her arms, "So where is everyone?" The blonde shrugged, pushed the door open and motioned for Sara to follow her inside.

"I sent Tristan off to fume by himself in his own suite and Harv went to see one of the Cirque shows." The model, dressed in a tight black skirt and a slinky shirt designed by some hot up and coming designer, arranged herself on one of the leather couches. "And Jennica is out running some card table, fleecing the casino for thousands I'm sure."

Sara tried to be mad at her. She wanted to be annoyed by the woman's casual attitude and almost lazy ease. She wanted to be mad because Alex looked so damn good. She wanted to be mad at her for being there, for ruining her smooth, calm life. She couldn't be and even that didn't upset Sara. She simply sat down on the couch across from Alex and relaxed against the leather. Sara closed her eyes and for the first time since Hodges had flashed that damn article in her face, she was still.

At one time, all those years before, she would have sensed Alex crossing the space between them, now she didn't realize it until the woman was sitting beside her. "What are you doing here, Sahara?" The question wasn't accusatory, as it would be with Catherine, or layered with subtext and riddles as it would be with Grissom. It wasn't even the blunt curiosity of Hank or any other of her attempts at dating recently. It was something else altogether, something she could only classify as Alex.

Sara opened her eyes and was slightly disconcerted but in no way surprised to see Alex so close to her. She gave the other woman a half-smile. "I took the night off."

Alex chuckled and gave her a sideways look. "Try that line with someone who doesn't know you." She paused, then let out an aggravated breath. "Is this because of that fucking newspaper? I swear, Sara, I didn't know anything about that picture. You know I would have fought it tooth and nail. It didn't get you in trouble at work did it?" She put her hand on Sara's knee. "Sahara?"

Sara shook her head. "It's a little hard to miss, but no I got into trouble all by myself tonight." She sighed, " I thought we were on a private beach." The non-sequitur didn't throw Alex a bit.

"So did I. I've already got Harv and Tristan on it." She let out a hiss of breath. "I give those bastards everything: stories, pictures, exposes, but it's never enough." She put a finger under Sara's chin and lifted it. "They had no right to drag you and your career into this shit."

Sara pushed her hair out of her face. "Just like old times, huh?"

Alex laughed and let Sara's face go, slowly, so she could settle back against the arm of the couch. "Something like that." They sat quietly for a moment, facing each other on the couch, and then Alex nudged at her with her bare foot. "It was that Willows woman, wasn't it? That one knows exactly how to push your buttons."

Sara let out a groan and let her head fall back. "Can we not talk about her, please?"

She could see Alex's smirk from behind her closed eyelids. "Okay then."

Sara felt the couch shift and Alex's weight leave it. "Today's events call for a drink."

Sara cracked open one eye. "Absolutely." Sara watched, with unabashed appreciation, as Alex sauntered over to the fully-stocked bar that her penthouse suite boasted. She closed her eyes again when the woman was behind the bar. She listened to the open and close of the mini refrigerator, the clink of glass bottles being rummaged through and the random curse words that floated across the room. It was wonderfully familiar, a comfort in its own way. Sara needed comfort tonight and despite possible repercussions, she knew she had come to the right place and the right woman.

The woman in question came back and sat down on the couch beside her, several airplane bottles in one hand and two frosty full-sized bottles of Becks beer in the other. Alex tossed her mane of wild curls. "Champagne is for celebrating, Vodka for remembering and—"

Sara smiled and finished the familiar phrase, "Tequila is for forgetting."

They both took a drink of beer and sat for a moment.

"You did look good, though, in that picture. Very relaxed and sexy, I always said you would make a gorgeous model."

Sara laughed. "Well outside of it quite possibly ruining my career and life, it was a nice little ego boost."

Alex handed her one of the many small bottles of Tequila. "I'll drink to that." They both downed their airplane bottle and quickly chased with the Becks. Alex negligently tossed the bottle over her shoulder and the back of the couch. "That was for you, Sahara, in honor of your new place in countless cop spank banks."

She was appalled by the idea, but laughter bubbled out of her throat none the less and she finished the rest of her beer. "This is a very bad idea."

Beside her, Alex nodded. "Very bad."

Sara rose to get another round of beer. "I cursed out two of my direct supervisors tonight. Really spoke my mind without filtering or omitting anything at all."

Alex polished off her own beer and cocked an eyebrow, saying, "You're going to regret that in the morning."

Sara walked back to the couch, a bottle of cold beer in each of her hands. "I regret it _now_. Don't get me wrong, I've waited a _long_ time to tell Catherine Willows off, but she is probably getting me fired as we speak. You were the best plan I could come up with."

Alex opened up two more airplane bottles of tequila. "I'm flattered."

They sat quietly for a minute, drinking. Sara slipped out of her ankle boots and tucked her feet underneath her. Alex propped her arm along the back of the couch so her fingers brushed up against Sara's dark hair.

Sara tipped her head back and sighed, resting for a moment. "So tell me about what you've been up to. I haven't kept myself in the loop." That, Sara smirked to herself, was an understatement. She had carefully, almost religiously, avoided anything that was even vaguely associated with the high stress, big bucks fashion industry.

Beside her Alex let out a sigh. "Shows, shoots, after parties and endorsement deals, nothing has changed that much. I sponsor a shelter back home, for women and children." Sara smiled at the sudden infusion of life that had rushed into the other woman's voice as she spoke of her charity work. "And I've got a second shelter that I'm about to sponsor in LA. I used a couple of your old contacts in the system to build ties, I hope you don't mind."

Sara glanced at the large window that overlooked the neon drenched strip. Instead of gazing out at the city, she unfocused her eyes to see their ghostly reflections in it. The alcohol she had downed burned and buzzed in her system. They took a third airplane bottle of tequila and Alex rose for a third round of beer, and Sara remembered that she hadn't eaten anything except the chocolate she and Wendy had shared earlier. She _really_ was going to regret this later.

She might regret it, but this was the first night since Natalie Davis had kidnapped her that she had relaxed. She was comfortable and she felt safe. No one, not even Grissom, understood her quite as well as Alex. Alex had been her friend, first real love and her pillar of strength. There were years between then and now, but somehow they still fit. Maybe that was why when she saw Alex's reflection leaning in for a kiss, she welcomed it.

Author's Note: Oh fun! Wish me luck, I've hit a small snag with the chapter I'm currently working on. Okay, so I hit the snag about a week ago...Then again, I've been coming home from work only to be a yard slave. Spring is here and my free time has been stolen from me and given to the flower garden.


	41. Chapter XL: Gossip Mongering

_Gossip Mongering_

* * *

Chapter XL

Nick had been more than happy to drive out to Henderson alone tonight. The Lab's high-strung atmosphere was too tense for his tastes. If he wanted to walk through mine fields he would have joined the Marine Corps. He wasn't sure what had exactly been said, but Sara had taken some hard knocks lately and she had finally lost control of her temper. It wasn't that he'd never seen her angry, you couldn't go a month without Catherine and Sara disagreeing about something, but this had been different. Sara had changed; her kidnapping and subsequent sojourn through the desert had left its mark on her. He didn't think anyone, not even Grissom, had realized how deep those marks and scars went.

He, along with Warrick, Greg, Bobby, Archie and a few others had already called the wayward CSI but they had all been kicked to voice mail immediately. Wherever Sara had gone—she wasn't at her apartment, as someone had already checked there—she didn't want to be disturbed.

Nick poured the quick setting plaster over the footprint he'd been examining in a smooth, steady back and forth motion. He didn't blame her, they all needed to get away from the lab and the job once and a while. Besides, if he had pissed Catherine off like she had, he'd be hiding too. He smiled at his own thoughts as he kept a wary eye on the mold he was taking. This would all blow over by tomorrow and he would badger Sara into going out for a drink with Warrick, Greg and him. That would get her mind off of things, a day out with the guys. No angry blonde women, or Grissom, allowed.

Speaking of perturbed blondes, an odd angled flash of blue light against the stucco white of the house told him that Sofia Curtis, his detective for this case, had finally arrived. He cast one quick glance over his shoulder and saw her slam the door of the beige econo-box suburban from the PD motor pool. He eased out of his squat, rested one knee and raised a hand to her in greeting.

It took her longer than it would normally take one to walk across the scant few hundred yards between them, but she had to duck under the crime scene tape, get a status report from the uniformed officer who had secured the scene and skirt around the yellow evidence markers he had already laid in the grass. She was also, he noted, on her cell phone. Since she, like most of the LVPD, was juggling several cases at the moment, it was not out of the ordinary. The frustrated and borderline furious look on her face made him hope that her wrath was focused on whatever poor sap was on the other end of the conversation and not him.

He winced when she came closer and he could actually hear her speaking. "Look I don't have time to talk about this right now." The detective paused and shoved the hand that wasn't holding the cell phone through her lose blonde locks. "Fine, let me rephrase." Her usually smooth and pleasant tone had been replaced by a clipped and staccato one that he recognized from the interrogation room. "I am not having this conversation, now or ever and definitely not with you." There was another short pause and he could see Sofia's shoulders stiffen and her scowl deepen. "You know what, I'm on a scene. I have to go." She snapped the phone shut and shoved it in her pocket, then she looked at him.

Nick grinned up at the woman. "It makes you miss corded landlines. Slamming the handset down on the cradle made a great closing statement. Now all we can do is push buttons angrily."

Sofia chuckled. "Yeah."

Nick glanced at the mold, which was setting nicely. "That wasn't Sara by any chance was it?"

Sofia patted her pockets absentmindedly and pulled out a plastic wrapped toothpick. "I wish. No, it was the Capitan."

Nick's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Capitan Brass?!"

Sofia, toothpick in the corner of her mouth, shook her head. "My mother."

He shook his head. "I love my family, but there is a reason I live in Vegas."

Sofia let out a full-fledged laugh. "No one ever said you weren't a smart man, Stokes, now tell me what we've got tonight."

Nick quickly checked the mold's texture and was satisfied that it had set properly. He spoke as he photographed, lifted, bagged and tagged the mold. "Oliver Doakes, forty-six year old Caucasian male, last seen Friday as he left his office. His wife, Heather, and two teenage daughters went to see the mother-in-law in LA for the weekend. They arrived back home this afternoon, but Mr. Doakes was nowhere to be seen. He missed his usual Saturday golf game and wasn't at church this morning. All of his clothes are in the closets and his car is in the garage. The front door was unlocked, the alarm was off and there was no sign of forced entry."

Sofia rolled her eyes. "And there's no way he just went out for a walk or called a cab."

Nick stood up and motioned for her to follow him. "That's the first thing I thought, it wouldn't be the first time we've seen it."

Sofia fell in step with him. "It wouldn't even be the hundredth."

Nick led her through the front door and down the main hall, "This is where the suspicious comes in, though." They entered the kitchen and Sofia immediately saw what he meant. There was an open styrofoam takeout box on the kitchen table along with a six pack of beer.

The food had been, a couple of days ago, the best barbecue in Vegas. Every cop in the city knew about LJ's Barbecue. LJ, a Chicago native who had been in Vegas for more years than anyone could recall, referred to his carefully guarded recipes the best-tasting heart attack in the West and with good reason.

There were flies buzzing around the spoiled food, and Sofia took a step back, slightly disgusted. Bugs were Grissom's bag, not hers. "He had a full rack of LJ's ribs with all the fixings, descent beer, ESPN on his high-def TV in the next room, no girls running around to complain about him wearing his old boxers and no wife to nag at him about his cholesterol. It sounds like a nice little vacation." She looked around the kitchen quickly. "You worked the inside yet?"

Nick shook his head. "I was waiting for you to get here. I figured you'd like to see it undisturbed."

Sofia nodded absently, her mind already going over possible explanations for the man's disappearance. She was about to leave Nick to his job, but he reached out and touched her shoulder.

"Can I ask you something, off the record?"

Sofia twirled the toothpick in her mouth around. "Fire away."

Nick frowned, and shoved his ungloved—he'd taken his plaster spattered gloves off already—hands in his pockets. "What do you think about this whole Sara-Alex Dupree thing?"

Sofia sighed. "I don't think anything about it."

Nick shifted around, lowered his chin. "C'mon, Sofia, I'm not digging for dirt here. You are a good judge of character and you've been around this Dupree woman. It's obvious that they have history. She broke Sara's heart and I don't like to see Sara hurt."

Sofia's initial reluctance melted away. The Graveyard CSIs were a hard bunch to crack, but they were loyal to a fault. Nick was everybody's brother and since Sara's kidnapping, he had been even more protective of her than before. She trusted the Texan and needed to talk to someone, anyone.

"It's complicated, but my gut says that Dupree isn't our killer." Nick looked around, making sure no gossip-mongering uniforms were around, "Catherine is dead set against her." Sofia scowled. "I don't know what her problem is."

Nick shrugged one shoulder. "Catherine's not my concern right now."

They stood silently for a minute. Nick rubbed the back of his neck furiously then looked Sofia dead in the eye. "I have a friend, a friend of a friend really, who might be interested in this case, hypothetically speaking."

Sofia crossed her arms over her chest. "How would this friend of a friend weigh in on this situation, hypothetically?"

Nick smirked, "She's one of the top legal eagles in DC and hypothetically has a lot of push and shove when it comes to federal crimes."

Sofia saw where this was going._ "We will_ need help when this whole thing breaks, everywhere from LA to Atlanta has people involved."

Nick smirked. "And if TAN really is involved we will, hypothetically, need a star witness against them."

Sofia nodded. "How do you know this hypothetical person?"

Now Nick's grin could truthfully be called shit-eating. "She played basketball with my sister at U of Texas before they went off to Law School together." He momentarily paused and Sofia wasn't exactly sure what he was thinking, but it didn't seem very pleasant.

She didn't particularly want to know where Nick's thoughts had taken him, but she did know what was in her head. Sofia nodded as she turned to take Mrs. Doake's statement. "Get in touch with her, but keep things hypothetical for now."

Nick nodded. "We can trust her to do the right thing."

Unfortunately, Sofia mused as she passed through the dining room to the den, even she wasn't sure exactly what the right thing to do was at the moment.

* * *

The Lab was observing a temporary cease fire, but everyone knew it was just the calm before the next storm raged through. It was as if the air vibrated with tension and _everyone_knew why. Sara Sidle and Catherine Willows had just had the mother of all blow-out, knock-down, drag-out arguments. This time, though, Conrad Ecklie hadn't been there to step in. The assorted lab personnel counted themselves lucky that no shots had been fired or punches thrown.

The lines of loyalty were very blurry tonight, and no one wanted to officially declare their side yet. The scuttlebutt that was being passed around at the speed of text was that Catherine was going to get Sara fired. Others wanted to know the odds on the fist fight that was on the brink of sparking off.

Wendy, for herself, didn't know where she stood. She watched the vials of DNA samples and control vials spin in the centrifuge while she thought. She had been in the lab long enough to know the stories. Catherine, according to gossip, had been gunning for Sara since the day the brunette had walked in the door. The stories varied wildly as to why the two women had such a rocky start. While most claimed that Catherine had known about Grissom and Sara from the begining, others offered more exotic ideas. Wendy very much doubted that Sara was one of Catherine's dead exes old mistresses and the idea that Sara was one of Catherine's old clients, from when the woman had been an exotic dancer, was even more ludicrous.

No, Sara was just too damn classy to poach and while the jury was still out on the matter, Wendy was pretty sure that the two women hadn't had a torrid affair. Then again, Wendy glanced at the computer running a rape case semen sample through CODIS, if they had been involved, it couldn't have been since she had arrived in Vegas. She would have definitely seen the signs. Besides, if the fling was still going, Catherine would have killed Grissom and a few others a long time ago. She didn't think the older blonde was much on sharing.

The testing cycle ended and now the computer had to run its analysis so she keyed up the correct sequence and took the specimens out of the centrifuge. All of that was, in Wendy's opinion, coincidental.

The real issue at hand was Alexandra Dupree. Weather she was innocent or guilty as sin was currently unknown. What she and everyone else in the city knew was that Catherine wanted to take Dupree down, hard. It was a fact: Sara Sidle had been Dupree's girlfriend. Now that she thought about it, she_ had _heard something about one of the ex-CSIs dating a model back in Frisco, but had never paid the rumor any mind. Sara had been recused, but was sure that Dupree had nothing to do with the murders.

It was Catherine versus Sara and the whole lab was watching and waiting to see who would come out on top. The printer beeped and she swiveled in her chair to get the printout and then cursed under her breathe. Meagan Moonigham's rapist wasn't in the system.

She double-checked the results and considered consulting the Military DNA database since the rape had occurred so close to Nellis, but was interrupted.

Warrick Brown breezed into her lab with a sealed evidence bag. He looked grim, his green eyes dull. She looked up, asking, "Did she?" He shook his head and Wendy felt something inside her deflate: Megan Moonigham hadn't survived surgery. There was a six-month old baby boy with no mother and twenty third-graders with no teacher anymore. Wendy crinkled the useless paper in her hand. She wasn't looking for a rapist, now she had to find a murderer. Maybe TAN wasn't so far off the mark after all.

Warrick leaned against the counter. "They worked on her for hours, but—" he let his hand rise and fall limply, "you can't save them all, I guess." Wendy sighed; she'd read the case report, and the woman hadn't had much of a chance to begin with: rape, blunt force trauma to the back of the head and a stab wound to the right lower quadrant of the abdomen. She had been found in a 7-11 parking lot in a pool of her own blood.

More determined now, Wendy snatched the evidence bag out of his hand. "What have you got for me?"

Warrick stood up straighter. "We found it shoved into a trashcan by the gas pumps."

She opened up the bag and pulled out a rough cotton-poly blend work shirt. She could barely make out the white on blue embroidered name for all of the scarlet red blood. "Think our killer is Joe?"

Warrick nodded. "I'm already tracking down who makes it and who bought it. See if you can pull DNA and match it to the semen."

Wendy's mind had already jumped ahead. "Have you already logged it in and photographed it?" When he nodded, she scrawled down her initials to transfer it to her possession. She carefully turned the shirt inside out and started scrutinizing it. If she could match epidural DNA to the semen that had been left inside Megan, Warrick would have plenty of support when he went for Joe Doe Rapist-Murderer.

She picked up a sani-swab and started swabbing the cloth for skin cells. "Anything else on the Device killings tonight?"

Warrick let his head fall backwards. "Other than my headache, no."

Wendy scowled. "Damn." She pushed the cap over the first swab and began on the second. She had double gloved before touching the evidence, and the samples went straight from shirt to her which meant less room for error. She looked up from what she was doing, momentarily, to ask, "Have you heard anything from Catherine?" Everyone knew that Catherine went to Warrick before anyone else.

Warrick chuckled weakly. "I would repeat what she said, but I'm kind of afraid my Grandmother would make a special trip from Heaven just to wash my mouth out."

Wendy winced. "That bad?"

He nodded. "She's pretty hot under the collar right now."

She turned the shirt over and capped the swab. "Warrick Brown, ladies and gentlemen, master of the understatement."

Warrick pushed his hand over casually styled brown hair and grinned half heartedly. "If I had wanted to take this kind of abuse, I would still be married."

She finished taking her primary samples and started to process the swabs. She clipped the cotton off of the stick and put a piece down in each of the test tubes.

"I'm just worried, that's all." Her hands moved smoothly, even if her thoughts were a little rocky. "I think Catherine might have pushed Sara too far this time."

Warrick nodded. "Sara's stronger than most people think and Catherine does care about her more then she lets show." He looked around quickly, as though to make sure no one was ease dropping. When he was satisfied that no one would root them out as gossip mongers he turned back to her. "I don't think I've ever seen Catherine panic like that, except for Lindsey. She fell apart that night Natalie Davis took Sara. She played it strong for Griss and everyone, but she was a mess right up until they let Sara leave the hospital."

Wendy nodded, but wasn't exactly convinced. "So they're what, frenemies?"

Warrick shrugged, "They have one of those weird girl relationships. I don't get it, but that's how it is. Plus Cath is trying to keep the case from going under. She's a supervisor and everyone is looking to her to pull this thing through."

Wendy lifted each plastic vial and visually inspected her work, "That doesn't mean she has to trample Sara to do it."

Warrick nodded. "Grissom won't let that happen, and not just because it's Sara. We've all been in tight spots before and Griss has helped get us out. He has some friends in pretty high places."

Wendy nodded. "I hope so."


	42. Chapter XLI: One Thing Leads To Another

Author's Note: It's been a little while since the last chapter. Life gets in the way from time to time, ah well. Besides one reader's brush with death I think we all got through it okay.

This chapter comes with a big honking content warning: sexual content and graphic violence.

_Chapter XLI_

_One Thing Leads To Another_

The club was hot and the women, Adam happily noted, were hotter. The beer, though, was awful. It was, according to his brother, an acquired taste. If all beer tasted like day old horse piss he wasn't sure if he even wanted to acquire it. There had to be a better way to pledge a Frat. He drank the beer anyway, though, because there was no way he was going to look like a loser in front of everyone and his brother.

They had been at Vibe for around an hour and he was batting about five hundred with the ladies, five-fifty if he was really generous. Unwanted beer in hand, he navigated through the nearly shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of club goers. He was no expert with bars, but this size crowd had to have broken some fire code or something. Then again, since like half of the people were babes, he shouldn't be complaining. They had staked out a table earlier, not that any of them were spending too much time there. He angled through the crowed, and hoped he could get there without stepping on too many feet. Adam's head bobbed in time with Soulja Boy's newest hit, Crank That, while he tried to look cool and simultaneously not spill watered-down alcohol all over himself.

His efforts, while valiant, were ultimately futile. Room-temperature Coors Lite splashed all over his shirt when a woman in a red dress all but knocked him on his ass. He fumbled the glass like he would a bouncing grounder, and it didn't fall. The woman turned on her insanely high heel and looked at him wide eyed. "Oh God, I am so sorry!" She had dark hair that was jaggedly cut, full pouty lips and her stoplight red dress was a tiny fraction of an inch away from being indecent.

"Don't worry about it, it's not every day a beautiful woman all but throws herself at me." He put on his best smile and hoped like hell he didn't sound like a dork.

It might have been the dimple that popped and the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled, or the line might have actually worked--he wasn't sure, but it didn't matter because she smiled back at him. "Let me buy you a drink to make up for your shirt." Even though they were standing less then a foot apart, she had to shout to make herself heard.

Adam tugged his collar and tilted his head. "A lady should never have to buy her own drinks, what are you having?"

The woman crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them even closer to popping out of the top of her dress. "I'll have a screaming orgasm." She toyed with one of her hoop earrings and ran her tongue across her top lip when she was done speaking.

Adam felt most of his blood rush south. "I guarantee it."

He had a hell of a time working his way back to the bar, and the trip to the table where the pretty lady was waiting for her drink was even worse. He just focused on not spilling his--or her--drink again. When he finally caught sight of the table, he felt something inside him droop. The girl that he had finally lucked out with was all but on Dozer's lap. "Damn," he swore but the sound of his curse was lost in the club's chaotic mix of music and conversation. He dodged his way past the outskirts of the crowds and put the two frosty glasses on the table. He shot Dozer a dirty look and looked at the dark haired woman. It was then he realized that he hadn't even gotten her name. His first reaction was to hit himself in the head, but he had to play this cool. "Damn, man, I haven't even gotten this gorgeous lady's name yet and you're trying to steal her away."

Amazingly enough, the woman extricated herself from Dozer's grasp and slid onto the stool closest to him. "He's not stealing me away, and you can call me Alex."

Adam grinned again and pulled the third and last of the table's stools over closer to her. "I'm Adam."

"And I," Dozer said, rolling his eyes, "am out of here." Before the football player had even unhooked his feet from the stool's rungs, Josh and Luis ambled over.

Luis's dark eyes were bright from alcohol and excitement. "Dude," he said, punching Dozer's arm. "We just got an invite to a party over at UNLV."

Dozer opened his mouth to protest, but Josh beat him to the punch. "Kappa Deltas, man, we can't say no."

Adam stood and looked at Alex, who was toying with her drink. "Give me just a second." He turned away from her and looked at his brother who was huddled up with his buddies.

Josh winked at him. "Bro, if you stay here you have to hook up your own transport home."

Adam glanced over his shoulder and saw the luscious and obviously horny Alex running her index finger around the rim of his beer glass. "No problem."

They had made the decision and while Luis went to get specifics, Adam and Dozer watched Alex drag Adam back to the dance floor. Dozer looked down at the table and snorted. "That pipsqueak finished my beer."

Josh looked out at his brother on the dance floor. "Deal with it." He picked up Adam's full beer glass. "You know the rule, get to your feet, lose your drink." He gulped down half of the watered-down Coors and rolled his shoulders.

Dozer nodded but he scowled as he did so. "You're supposed to be the designated driver." Josh took another long drink and looked for his brother in the crowd. He caught sight of him, briefly, being lead by the hand towards the exit. He drained the last of the beer and sighed; it was a sad night when your sixteen year old baby brother got laid and you didn't.

"Don't be such a pussy, one beer won't kill me." Josh stretched and banged the glass down on the table. "All right, lets go and see if we can't get some sorority lovin'."

* * *

Her mouth was hot, her hands were clever and his head was swimming. He had mumbled off his address to the cabbie and then realized, belatedly, that he had meant to get a motel, not take Alex home. He couldn't exactly take her up to his room, the door of which was directly across from his parents. He would, he decided between steaming hot kisses, take her to Josh's apartment over the garage. He also decided, when he peeked at the cabbie's running meter, that he would have to use the emergencies only credit card his dad had given him to pay the fare. They reached their destination, his parents' two story in Suburbia half way to Boulder City, in record time. Then again, he checked his watch as he handed over the card, he had been very distracted. Alex, leaned against him, her breathe hot against his already overheated skin, "This is your place?"

He led her by the hand to the far side of the attached garage. "My brother's place, I crash here from time to time when I'm in town." The lie was slightly extravagant, but he liked it. He eased around the Corvette, his brother's baby, and ran his hand along the garage's narrow staircase. "Let me take you upstairs."

She pushed a hand through her dark hair. "How very Fonzie of you." Adam cocked his head momentarily unsure of who or what Fonzie was, but chuckled when he remembered the very old, sort of faggy, tv show that occasionally ran on TV Land.

"Something like that." He opened the door for her and cocked his head ninety degrees to catch a glance of her tight ass as she walked inside. He followed her, closing the door behind them and grinned when he saw that one of her sky high heels had already come off.

He flicked the switch to turn on the outside light by the garage's second story entrance. The light was more of an aesthetic choice than a necessary one and his brother had long ago switched from a normal bulb to one that was Wolfpack blue. When the blue light was on, Josh was busy and not to be disturbed. Adam only hoped his big brother paid him the same courtesy. The apartment's layout was simple and it was decorated in bachelor style--his mother hadn't been allowed to play Martha Stewart here. No, it was all Lakers, Colts, Cardinals and of course WLVU. Josh had a pretty sweet entertainment center set up too. He'd gotten a plasma screen tv for his birthday and an X Box 360 for Hanukkah. None of that, though, mattered. It was the queen-sized bed in the next room and the woman who was disrobing that had his attention. He bounded towards the bedroom and started to unbutton his shirt. Alex was down to her lace panties and demi-cup bra, both the same scarlet red as her dress. She was already sitting on the bed, her second shoe dangling from her finger ready to drop. "You are over dressed." She let the shoe drop to the floor and Adam felt every ounce of his blood flow south. He literally ripped at his shirt until the four remaining buttons popped and he shed the garment without a second thought. Obviously not satisfied with his speed, Alex's hand shot out and tugged him by the belt. The woman made short work of his belt buckle and fly and he stepped out of his pants a second later. Alex wasn't a hooker, he hoped, but neither was she a virgin. He fumbled for a condom--Josh had a box of them--as she pushed him down on the bed.

The heavy necklace she wore, some complicated pendent he couldn't see clearly in the near dark, dangled down, hitting him in the chin. He tugged at it playfully. "Hey, Babe, you want me to take this off, I wouldn't want it to get tangled anyone's hair."

She jerked up into a sitting position, her hips holding her only a few centimeters over him. "The necklace stays." Alex's voice had changed from the sex kitten purr to a hard brusque tone: it was non-negotiable.

More than ready to end the talking, he grinned, "Okay, I get it, what is it a big St. Christopher's medal or something? It's all good."

Above him, Alex threw her head back and laughed out loud. "Oh no. No, no, no. I'm not Catholic, these are my little forget-me-nots from other conquests." She leaned down again, letting her breasts brush against his chest. "I noticed you didn't take that ring off either, stud."

Adam looked at his right hand, the one that was running up and down her side. "Oh, that's my Great Grandad's ring, it's a family heirloom and my good luck charm."

Alex glanced at it briefly. "It will go great in my collection."

Adam laughed. "Okay, yeah sure, nice game there, Alex." The brunette he had been hoping to fuck until her brains leaked out of her ears leaned over him, catching his wrists in her hands.

"Who said it was a game?" Then her hips slid down, taking his raging hard on into her.

* * *

She watched his face for the realization. It didn't take long: his eyes widened and he pushed her hands away. He gasped for breath and his eyes started to water. "What the hell?" She slid down further, twisting her hips so the device locked down. He was strangely attentive for a drugged man, but he had been stumbling and out of it enough; he wouldn't put up too much of a fight.

He tried to buck her off, his voice hoarse with pain. "What the hell?! What the hell?!" He was thrashing under her, trying to escape his punishment. He was really only making it worse on himself. She felt the blood flow between their legs and pressed down on him harder.

"Don't act like this isn't exactly what you des-" He flipped their positions. She was shocked to find her back flat against the mattress. Now Adam was above her.

"What the fuck, lady?! Stop it! Oh God, stop it!"

Panic crawled up her throat. The drugs hadn't worked. The drugs hadn't worked! Fuck! She twisted around beneath him and he gritted his teeth against the pain. She could see the cords in his neck bulging as he tried and failed to pull out of her. His left hand went down between them, hoping to disengage the hold she had on him. It was a foolish mistake. She swung her unrestrained left hand at him, clawing at his chest. Her nails left four red claw marks across his pectoral and she smiled even as he reacted. His right hand captured both of her wrists and forced them above her head. His left was still between them, in the slick, bloody meeting of their genitals. She bounced herself up and down, and he finally screamed. He was getting desperate now. Desperate and stupid. He grabbed both of her shoulders and pulled her face up closer to his. He was screaming despite the distance. Flecks of his saliva hit her in the face. "GET IT OFF, LET ME GO! STOP IT!" She would have laughed, but at the moment, the situation was a little grave on her part. This must have been what had happened to Erica. She wouldn't, couldn't, end up like Erica. Her right hand reached out, searching for something, anything, to hit him with. They were, fortunately, on the right side of the bed, close enough to the bedside table for her to get her hands on exactly what she needed.

The lamp was some kind of bachelor special. The base of it was black, decorative wrought iron that swirled around itself and there was only a bare bulb. The shade had been lost or tossed a while ago. That didn't matter because once she got her fingers wrapped around a slender coil of metal, she swung it. She felt some resistance as the lamp's plug was jerked from the wall socket, but she still had enough momentum to hit him in the face, hard. Blood spurted from his nose and a cut on his forehead and he railed up and away from her. She saw her opportunity and took it. Adam was bigger than her, but nevertheless, she had the upper hand. She gyrated her hips and Adam cried in pain again, then she rolled her entire body.

They both fell off of the bed with a crack of flesh hitting floor. She landed on top and reached down between them. Her fingers were quickly covered in his blood and she twisted the base of the device and it unlocked. She pulled herself up and stood above him, looking around the room for something, anything, to finish the job.

She didn't expect him to move. He didn't just move, he lunged at her, tackling her to the floor once more. They were no longer connected at the groin, and that was the problem. He was heavier than her; she had lost her advantage. She squirmed beneath him, galvanized by thoughts of rape, and tried to kick him in his already damaged cock and balls. He didn't let her. He punched her in the side and pain shot through her entire body. The air rushed out of her and she wheezed in pain.

"You don't like that, do you, bitch?" His words slurred a little and a drop of blood fell from his mouth as he spoke. She tried to claw at him again, but her hand went wide and sliced the air. He grabbed at her hair and caught a chunk of it along with the large hoop earrings she wore and gave her a shake. "What the fuck, Alex?!"

She jerked her head back hard and felt the sickeningly sweet pain of her ear lobes tearing around the jewelry. He was left with earrings and a few strands of hair in each hand. The momentum had sent him backwards a bit and she was able to scoot out from under him. There were three doors in the bedroom, and she worked towards the one they came though, the one that would lead her out. She used the door frame for support and pulled herself to her feet again. Her side radiated pain where he'd hit her and her ears stung, but he was in much worse shape. "You bastard, didn't your mother ever treat you never to hit a lady?"

Adam used the bed and stood up again on shaky legs. "I am going to call the police, you crazy bitch. Your ass is grass."

Her eyebrows shot up and her hand went to the outside wall by the couch. She would have run, but her fingers found a better answer. She brought her new plan through the door and into the bedroom and saw him mouth the word No over and over again. It was heavy, almost clumsy in her hand. The wood grain and grip tape seemed unusually rough and sticky in her slender hands. It had been several years since she'd last played softball, but one never really forgot how to swing a bat.

Adam got half of a curse out of his mouth as he turned, trying to run. She swung the bat hard, like she was going for a home run, and he caught the swing across the small of his bare back. The wood hit his skin with an almost musical thwak. He bent over double, but didn't fall. His hands held his back and as he came back up, arching backwards in pain, and she swung the bat again. This time the crack was louder and he did go down, falling the wrong way on the knee she had just hit. He was in the fetal position, hands grasping his knee. She hit it again and his scream was a high pitched girl screech that put horror movies to shame.

He was crying now, begging God, or maybe her, to stop. He rolled over and she could see that his face had screwed up in agony. It wasn't a good look for him. She raised the bat over her head and brought it down on his chin and mouth. The sound of breaking bone and shattering teeth made her smile and she leaned over him. She put the base of the bat on the floor beside him and leaned down, propping her hands on the head

"Whose ass is grass now, huh? Also, honestly, who the lives over a garage when they're twenty-one? Move the fuck out."

The only answer she got was a gurgle as blood filled the man's mouth. She straightened up and rested the blood stained bat on her shoulder. "Whose ass is grass now?" Then she hit him again, over the chest and ribs. Moaning weakly he rolled over, trying to protect himself. She pulled the bat over her head and brought it down with all of her strength on the back of his skull. There was no splatter of blood this time, but he lay still. She dropped the bat and hopped over his limp body, slightly disgusted at the foul smell that came along with death. She headed towards the open bathroom door and only paused to look down at the ring on his right hand. She stepped on his flat hand and pulled the ring off with a couple of tugs. It wasn't great, but it would do. She held it up to her hand and compared it. Her face morphed into a scowl. "Son of a bitch. I broke a nail."

She shook her head and slid into the small bathroom--the carpet beneath her feet was so full of blood that it oozed out when her weight shifted. She frowned at that and skipped into the bathroom, trying to avoid the worst of the blood, the same way she would have a mud puddle.

She looked in the bathroom mirror and smiled widely at what she saw. Her naked body was, once again, covered in blood. There were little drops and big spots. Her hands, when she looked at them in the mirror, had streaks of crimson blood on them and her lap was absolutely covered. The blood dripped down her thighs, flowed over and around her knees, down her shins and puddled on the cool tile floor. She shoved one bloody hand through her blood speckled dark hair and frowned at her ears. That was going to be a bitch to heal up. Of course she should really be thankful he hadn't ripped out her navel piercing. She turned to look at the shower, she had to clean up before she left, but stopped cold when she felt a hand grab her ankle.

It was like a scene from a bad zombie movie. His face was covered in still dripping blood, the entire left side was just a mess of red. His mouth had been split open and there was a tooth sticking through the flesh of his torn bottom lip. He was groaning and more blood bubbled up as he tried to speak. She jumped back and broke his weak grip easily. He pulled back his arm and tried to push himself up. All he could do was flop down, head in the doorway, useless and flaccid.

Alarmed at his apparent resurrection, she kicked at him. "Christ! I thought you were dead already!"

Panic once again washed through her, erasing the adrenaline and endorphin high. She looked around for a weapon frantically. At her wits end, she grabbed the edge of the bathroom's door and slammed it as hard as she could. The door had been painted utilitarian white at some point, but it was solid oak. It hit his head with a sickening thunk and forced it against the door frame before it bounced back. She took the round brass knob and started slamming the door on his head, over and over. More blood, hot and scarlet, spurted up gruesomely and Adam's body started convulsing like an epileptic. Then, after the all the drama and bloodshed, he lay still again and from the look of his crushed skull, he wasn't going to get up.

Author's Note Part II: Told you so.


	43. Chapter XLII: A Family Affair

_Chapter XLII_

_A Family Affair_

Martin "Marty" Roggen yawned so wide that his jaw popped with an audible crack. He was beat, bushed, worn out and tired, really really tired. Beside him in the driver's seat, his wife Tora--who was only a smidge more awake--chuckled, "Don't you dare fall asleep now, we're almost home."

Marty closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Why is it you're a forward-thinking, modern woman until it comes to carrying your heavy briefcase in?"

Tora made the final turn onto their street. "Why do you insist on pretending to use that Boflex I got you if you're not going to put your muscles to good use?"

Marty rolled his eyes in the dark and ignored the comment. "I know why Garret called you in, Ms. Structural Engineer, but why did I have to spend my weekend at the Dam instead of on the back nine? I'm a computer guy. If the levees break, they call you. If they can't get Danny's porno screensaver to go off, they call me. There's a working logic in that."

Both of the Roggens worked at the Hoover Dam Complex and had just worked through a 'Disaster Management' workshop. Tora tried to hide her chuckle with a sigh. "Because you're on the Crisis Team and if your wife is suffering you should be too."

Marty grumbled, "We should have stayed over there so we wouldn't have to drive back tomorrow--well, later today. What was one more night going to hurt?" Tora slowed the car to a crawl and gave him a full-on glare. After twenty-five years of marriage Marty knew exactly what that look meant. "Right, so do you want to go drag Adam out of Josh's, or should I?" Tora turned into their own driveway and hit the remote button to open the garage doors.

Tora rolled her eyes. "You would think at sixteen he would know better than to stay up this late on a school night."

Marty unbuckled his seatbelt. "Oh, I don't know, I seem to remember a certain someone who never fell asleep 'til dawn when they were that age." Tora gave him a wide smile as she batted at his arm. "Just go drag him to his room while I drag the bags in." She pulled the BMW in until the hanging tennis ball tapped the windshield. "Then come up to bed because we have to be at work again in a few hours."

* * *

She scrubbed at her skin, washing the blood away with water and Axe body wash. The blood and soap flowed off of her body, red diluted to pink and circled the drain between her feet before disappearing forever. She let out an aggravated hiss when she scrubbed at her dark hair. Tears rose to her eyes; it hurt. The bastard had ripped hair out of her scalp and tore out her earrings._ Fucker_. She would have to go _touch _his disgusting _dead_ body to get the chunks of her hair and her earrings.

She cursed between her teeth when she moved. She might have to go to the hospital, because it felt like she had a broken rib. A broken rib for crying out loud! He had been so rough and alert, it was like he hadn't been drugged at all. She thought for a moment, and let the hot water pour over her. She had gotten better with the drugs. It had taken some trial and error at first, but he should have been completely out of it within twenty to thirty minutes and it had been much longer than that. Could she have bought a bad batch? She hardly thought so. The bastard she'd been buying from was well known all over campus for his ability. He was a chem grad student and cooked GHB in the labs after hours to keep his tuition paid. He was too smart to show up for a face to face deal, it was all done over paypal and intercampus mail. His caution had paid off for both of them in spades. She didn't have to cook her own drugs and he didn't know he was helping the Male Mutilator. She turned, intent on rinsing out her hair again and saw the white lights hit the small bathroom window.

She froze for a moment, completely shocked.

It was impossible! It just wasn't happening. She shut off the water with a quick slap of her hand and listened to what was going on around her. She pushed the glass door open and stepped out onto the cold tile. She could feel the floor vibrating underneath her feet. She quickly dropped to her knees, still completely naked and soaking wet, and pressed her ear to the floor.

Her heart rate jumped, there was a car pulling into the garage underneath her. A car meant people. People meant witnesses. Christ! She couldn't remember if there had been a gun in the apartment. Of course, she hadn't been looking for a gun at the time. Panic shot through her, sending another dose of adrenaline into her bloodstream. The brother was home, and she just bet he brought his two jock buddies with him. Three to one were not good odds. Those were gang-rape odds.

"Shit. Shit. Shit!"

She looked around frantically; it wasn't supposed to happen like this. This, she realized with a shudder, was what had happened to Erica. She definitely didn't want to end up like Erica.

That thought cleared her head. She didn't have time to panic right now. First, she realized, she had to get un-naked, quickly. She had to get dressed and her clothes were on the other side of a dead body. While she was reasonably sure the blood wouldn't show on a red dress in dim light, she didn't want to risk it. She looked around the small bathroom and settled, somewhat reluctantly, on the wicker clothes hamper. She riffled through the clothes and found what wasn't absolutely filthy. The WLVU hoodie was too big for her, the blue basketball shorts were a tad too tight in the hips and almost as long as capris on her. It was better, though, than being naked. She looked around--it seemed like hours since the car had come in, but it had really only been seconds. Unfortunately, seconds were probably all she had. She didn't like the idea of going back through the bedroom, and all the blood there, but didn't have to worry about it. The bathroom had a second door that lead back into the main part of the garage apartment: the small, probably rarely used, kitchenette, to be specific. The first problem was solved, the second--where the hell were her shoes?--was still afoot. She strained to listen, hoping to hear something to let her know what was going on below her.

She padded her way across the tile to where the carpet started and glanced at the open bedroom door. She could barely just make out the lump that was the dead man on the floor. She was in something of a conundrum or a Catch-22. She needed to leave now or risk getting caught. However, if she left now, without cleaning up after herself, she risked getting caught. She hesitated, and might have decided to take the risk and stay. Then she heard the footsteps. The even clod of someone coming up the stairs. She flattened herself against the wall and eased around to the door. The strange glow of the stupid K-Mart blue light gave the steps an eerie look. It was eerie, and empty, yet the steps were still coming.

"Josh, Adam, you guys up here?"

She felt the bottom of her stomach fall away and nausea burn in her throat. There was a second set of stairs, and the door was directly across from her. Damn.

It was another horror movie, but this one was more _Scream-_esque. She watched the door knob turn slowly, and her mind ran in frantic circles, trying to figure out what to do.

"Boys, you both have school tomorrow."

The door swung open and she pressed her back against the wall harder, all but frozen in the face of imminent discovery.

"Turn that X Box off and go to-"

In the end, she didn't make a decision, she just acted. When the door opened all the way, she was faced with a man in a rumpled dress shirt. Their eyes met for a moment and then she lunged forward.

She weighed one hundred and eight pounds, and though the woman who called herself Alex didn't know it, Martin Roggen weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds. Usually the weight difference would give Martin an advantage over her. Unfortunately for Martin, he was on the edge of a steep flight of stairs.

She lunged at him, kicking off the wall with one of her bare feet for extra leverage. She hit him with both hands, dead center in the chest. While the physics behind the situation eluded both parties, the end result was inescapable.

She landed on her knees and watched the man teeter on the edge of the top step. His arms wind milled wildly and his eyes widened with fear and confusion. Amused with herself she puffed her cheeks up and blew on him like she would a candle, then she shoved him again.

She didn't bother to watch him fall, the sound of flesh hitting wood, concrete and steel was more then enough. When the last thud had fallen and two voices cried out, one in agony and one in shocked horror, she opened the other door and ran down the other stairs.

Her hands scraped the wood handrails and she stumbled on the bottom step. She got up quickly, but not without stubbing her toe and scraping her knee. Her eyes were already well adjusted to the dark of night, but she had no idea where she was. It didn't matter; she pushed through the shrubs and into the next yard and started running.

* * *

Tora had a briefcase in each hand. Her husband's was an old-fashioned stiff leather affair that he'd had since he'd graduated college. He had the world's most sophisticated laptop in a thirty-dollar Staples special that his grandmother had bought him for graduation. It was silly and sweet, which was Marty to a tee. Her bag was much more practical and definitely more stylish. The soft-shell leather attaché bag was newer and looked like it actually belonged in the same decade the computer inside it did.

She headed towards the door that would lead her from the somewhat cluttered garage to her kitchen. It was so good to be home!

She heard the noise coming down the stairs before she saw what it was and when she did, her lungs stopped still in her chest.

Her husband came tumbling down the steps in a bone-rattling clatter, rolling down the steps backwards, his arms flung out trying desperately to catch a safe hold on the handrail or wall. Marty slammed into the concrete floor with a loud crack and Tora felt the scream bubble up in her throat slowly, like it was a viscous semi solid. Time slowed down and though her throat burned from screaming, she could not hear herself.

She dropped both cases, leather and five thousand dollar laptops be damned, and ran to him.

He was on his back, his legs and arms were laying around him, spread eagle and limp. She hit her knees, oblivious of the pain that caused and looked into his eyes. Marty's eyes were dark brown, the same shade as both of their sons, and glazed over. He blinked though, so her heart beat again, he was still alive. She carefully cradled his head in her lap, "Marty, honey. Marty, say something."

She couldn't think, could barely speak, her wildest nightmares had sprang up right before her eyes and she was powerless to do anything. She wasn't a doctor, she didn't know how bad he was hurt or what to do. She blindly groped for his hands, taking one of them carefully in her own. She whispered nonsense to him while she used her one free hand to pat herself down, looking for her cell phone. Why couldn't she remember where it was? Was it still in the car? She looked at the car, it's engine was warm, she could hear it ticking.

On the one hand, Tora couldn't think she could stand up and leave her husband. On the other hand, she had to call 9-1-1. The boys, the boys were upstairs and she needed their help. "ADAM! JOSH!"

Bellow her Marty let out a groan. Her attention immediately refocused on his face. He was straining, almost like he was trying to sit up. Tora gently held him down. "No, no honey, don't move. I'm going to call an ambulance." She looked around again, "JOSH!"

"No." Marty coughed weakly and Tora looked down again.

"Marty, sweetie, we need to boys to call-"

He shook his head and winced as he did. "Pushed." He closed his eyes and the lines cut deeper into his face.

Tora let the single word sink in and felt a fresh wave of razor barbed fear cut into her heart. She looked up the steep flight of stairs and back at Marty. Conflict raged inside her. Her husband versus her sons.

Marty took a deep and ragged breath. "Frank. Go get Frank now."

She was scared, she was angry, she stripped off the wrinkled suit jacket she'd been wearing and slid it under her husband's head. "I'll be right back."

Tora scrambled to her feet and ran out of the garage. She tripped over her own feet as she crossed the small strip of pebble and stone that separated their driveway from that of Sergeant Frank Guerrero of the Boulder City Police.

"FRANK!"

She opened her mouth to scream again, but Frank came out of his own door clad in plaid boxers and holding a gun. "I heard screams."

Hysteria buzzed in her head and her legs threatened to collapse under her. "Someone pushed Martin down the stairs. The garage stairs."

* * *

Frank tried to calm his usually calm neighbor down. He expected this kind of thing at work, but not in his own neighborhood. He sent Tora to his house with instructions to call 911. He went into the garage, covering every direction the same way he would if he were clearing a scene. When he was sure there was no immediate danger in the garage, he went over to where Martin Roggen was lying. He quickly checked the pulse. It was thready but there. Son of a bitch. This wasn't some random tourist or bum, this was the guy that he regularly barbecued with. Hell, his daughter had been mooning over the Roggen boys for years. "You hang in there, Marty."

Frank told himself that this was like any other scene. Except for the fact that he was in his underwear and he was heading up to a kid's apartment. He took the stairs carefully, placing one bare foot sideways on the step and then another on the next step, moving quickly and quietly, his back to the wall.

He reached the apartment's landing and checked his blind spots at the door. It was dark but for the landing's bulb shining through the open door. "Boulder City Police! Josh, Adam, are you guys up here?" There was no answer. He stepped all they way inside, careful to not touch anything. He was another step inside when the smelled it. Death infected his senses quickly and completely. Bile rose up in his throat and he froze. He kept his dark adjusted eyes on the floor. He went into the bedroom and looked down at the shadowy form laying on the ground. It was one of the boys and he was completely naked. Lights from the street filtered in through the bedroom window and he saw the blood and felt his gut tighten and sour. He was going to be sick.

Frank backed out of the room, being very careful not to disturb anything. This was way outside of his expertise. He needed Homicide and CSI.

This was Boulder City, Vegas's quiet sister city. Things like this just weren't supposed to happen here.


	44. Chapter XLIII: All Hands On Deck

_Chapter XLIII_

_All Hands On Deck_

He let the tarantula crawl over his palms and fingertips. The tickle of eight small, hairy legs would be enough to send some people into a four-alarm panic. For Gil Grissom, it was enjoyable, almost therapeutic. It had been a stressful shift and it was only--he glanced at the wall clock--two AM.

He had weathered his disagreement with Sara the same way a sailor weathered a winter gale: just barely. Then just as he thought the turbulence and uproar was over, he realized that the scant thirty minutes had just been the misleading calm that was the eye of the storm. He resigned himself to chaos when Catherine threw his office door open and stomped in. She informed--all but screamed, rather--him of her own heated conversation with Sara.

When Sara did things, she didn't skimp, cut corners or do things by halves. Grissom half wondered if he was going to get a call from Conrad Ecklie as well. It wouldn't surprise him a bit.

He knew better than to ask Sara and Catherine to get along, but he did expect them to co-exist, for the good of the lab if nothing else. They could do it, he knew that. There had been times, rare blue moon occasions, when someone might have mistaken the two women for friends. There was something, though, some aberration or mental block that he couldn't quite place or understand, that kept them at odds with each other. He had asked Sara about it one night, but her answer had been vague at best. There were many mysteries in the universes, phenomena that he could not explain or even begin to understand. The inner workings of people's minds and thoughts for the most part escaped him. When it came to Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, though, not even the most talented psychologist, physiatrist or mentalist would have a clue.

He turned the unoccupied hand over and shifted it around so Toby could skitter across it again without changing directions. He wished he did have some sort of insight, some window, into Sara's mind right now.

This entire topsy-turvy situation didn't quite add up. Alexandra Dupree was an unknown variable in the equation that made up who and what Sara Sidle was. She wasn't by any means the only variable, but he had thought he'd figured at least most of them out. This relationship had come seemingly from the blue, like summer thunder. He thought Sara had trusted him. She had told him about her family and the past she guarded so dearly. Yet, even when they had met oh so many years ago, he had not known that she was interested in the other women. The notion that she had been involved in a functioning lesbian relationship was just _odd_.

How was a man supposed to feel when his very-recent ex revealed that she was, in fact, bisexual?

Alexandra Dupree was younger than Sara, rich, and just happened to be one of the most beautiful women on the planet. How could he, or anyone, compete with that? He didn't know. He had been with her for two years and it was like he didn't know Sara at all.

How many other little revelations had she glossed over? He had a feeling that there were still vast and deep fathoms of unexplored depths in the woman's mind and heart. Depths he would never see or explore.

Gil Grissom sighed. It was a deep sigh that started in the center of his being and encompassed all the feelings and words he would not show or say. He shouldn't think about Sara anymore tonight.

He had a case to solve and a killer to catch and that was where his attention needed to be. Despite that great intention, he didn't move except to keep Toby happily occupied on his hands. This could have continued for hours because neither spider nor man was particularly motivated to do anything else. Criminals, however, didn't bother to ask permission or check schedules.

The phone rang, and it's sudden shrill sound brought him back from the ether. He handled Toby carefully, as he didn't want to startle him into biting, and answered the phone in a calm, quiet tone. "This is Grissom." The etymologist listened without commenting, though his face did grow still and grave the longer the one sided conversation went on. It ended abruptly and without Grissom getting a single word in edgewise. Usually that would mean that the other person was exceptionally rude, very harried or one's boss. In this case it was all of the above: Rory Atwater had pulled out all the stops and called him directly. She had struck again. The media had already given this murderer an over-the-top nickname and were stirring the already murky waters as hard and fast as they could. The fact that a celebrity was involved was not helping things.

Grissom rubbed at his temples and stared at the phone he had just hung up. Two AM phone calls from the sheriff were never a good thing. During all his years in Vegas he had never gotten a birthday wish or congratulations at two o'clock in the morning. The so-called Male Mutilator was the only case in Vegas. Tonight's new scene was the only crime in the city that mattered and the Sheriff wanted him and his team there twenty minutes ago.

He put Toby back in his terrarium and made sure the top was fastened securely. It wouldn't do to have him lose in the lab. There was too much evidence to risk contamination and too many arachnophobes to worry about. That being done, he took his cell phone off of the charger and called Jim. Capitan Brass was on speed dial 3, Catherine was on 4 and so on and so forth.

He didn't bother with a greeting, Grissom jumped straight into the important questions and Brass answered just as quickly. Apparently, Jim hadn't left yet either, but Sofia and Nick were already on their way. Since the scene was in Boulder City, Grissom assumed that one of Sofia's contacts had tipped her off. The detective and CSI were already halfway there and were going to start processing immediately

Since he didn't have to bother with speed dial 5, Nick, and he would walk by Catherine's office, he quickly called speed dial 7 for Greg. Greg was in the garage, and would be on his way as soon as he had re-secured the evidence he had taken out. His next call would usually be to speed dial 6, but Warrick was down in Laughlin with a murder of his own. While it was all hands on deck, he would not call anyone off of an active scene that was almost an hour away. That simply didn't make sense. He would let Warrick work where he was for now.

His thumb lingered over the 2 key before pressing it. Sara's number had long ago been put on the second digit, only because 1 was taken by his voice mail. Since it would be a complicated shuffle of numbers, he had left it there. All of his CSIs were on speed dial, what difference did the exact number position make?

He was annoyed and just a little surprised when his call was sent to Sara's voice mail. Yes, they'd had an argument, but this was her _work_ phone and he was her _supervisor_. Sara had done many things, made mistakes, everyone did, but he had never known her to disregard her duties as a CSI, ever. He keyed in 10, which was the speed dial code for Sara's personal cell phone. He was, once again, sent to voice mail. As a last ditch attempt, he tried her at her apartment, speed dial 11, to no avail. He was aggravated, and a trifle worried, but had no time to spare. He went down to speed dial 8, and asked Doc Robbins to meet him at the scene.

Even with the ME, detectives and what part of his team would be there, he was woefully shorthanded and felt the pressure of the entire upper echelon of the county and city bureaucracy weighing down on him.

He rounded the corner and could see that news, especially bad news, traveled fast. Every single lab tech was clearing their respective work stations in anticipation of priority evidence. Bobby was even helping Hodges in the Trace Lab. It had gone through last year that due to budget constraints every full-time tech needed to be cross-trained and certified in at least one other specialty.

Grissom paused in the hallway, a thought rushing to the forefront of his mind. Cross-training, that was how he would solve his people problem.

He took a few extra steps and leaned into the DNA Lab. The brunette genetics specialist was nowhere in sight.

"Wendy?"

There was a sudden, and painful-sounding thud, and Wendy Simms popped up from behind the lab's center island. She was rubbing the abused crown of her head with one hand while she balanced a fresh batch of sterile test tubes in the other. "Yes?"

This all felt rather familiar, like he'd had this conversation before. Same lab, same circumstances, different person.

Grissom rubbed at his beard, "You've passed your written exam for field work?"

The woman looked puzzled, but nodded. "Yes."

Pleased, Grissom looked around, storm blue eyes taking everything in. "Is everything ready for evidence?"

Again, Wendy nodded, saying, "Yes."

Grissom, mind already made up asked one more question: "Have you passed your weapons qualifications?"

This time Wendy shook her head. "Not yet."

Now Grissom frowned, and weighed the consequences of what came next.

"Then stick close to Catherine, Nick or myself at all times."

Now Wendy did look confused. "What?"

Grissom turned to leave, replying, "You've shown interest in working in the field, and this is your trial by fire, we're leaving in three minutes."

Grissom walked out, intent on rounding up Catherine while Wendy stood there, shocked. The shock, however, wore off quickly and after a quick victory dance, she shed her lab coat and rushed to catch up.


	45. Chapter XLIV: Bedside Chat

_Chapter XLIV_

_Bedside Chat_

Detective Sofia Curtis had to take a breather. She, like most everyone else, had been on-scene for hours. They had been there so long that the sun would soon rise. She pushed a hand through her limp hair and looked around at the crime scene tape, evidence markers and uniforms scattered around the house. The Roggen family's home was being invaded and inspected and violated. She hated this part of the job. Everything they were doing was professional, necessary and for the family's good. That didn't make the investigation any less invasive. Privacy dissolved in the face of a murder investigation. The Roggens, Tora and Marty, were at Desert Palm with Jim. Their other son was still out on the town somewhere, completely and happily oblivious. Adam was already on Doctor Robbin's autopsy slab. She tried not to imagine him there, but had been to too many autopsies not to.

She wandered, careful not to disturb anyone or anything, around to the back of the house. The pool was serene, cerulean, and it was quiet. She breathed in, letting the tang of the chlorine and desert kissed air fill her lungs. If she didn't know any better, she would say that this was a world away from the primary scene. She did know better, though, and pretending was useless, she could still smell fresh death. There had been so much blood that it permeated her senses to the point that she could taste the copper and iron on her tongue. The clean-up crew was going to have a hell of a time getting that bedroom clean. Sofia doubted any of the Roggens would be able to look at the garage the same way again.

She had a thousand things to do, a million calls to make and a mountain of paperwork to start on back at the station. Sofia stood still and watched the auto-cleaner circle the in ground pool.

"It's really quiet out here."

Sofia turned to see Wendy Simms standing at the corner of the house. The DNA tech was still pale, but she looked otherwise recovered from her first experience with a messy scene. Grissom and Catherine should have known better then to bring someone so green along with them. They had been two CSIs short, but it still seemed a little cruel. The brunette came closer. "Grissom and Nick are finishing up in there." Wendy waved her hand in the general direction of the garage before unceremoniously plopping down on one of the lounge chairs. For a minute or so the only sound was the hum and bubble of the pool cleaning bot.

"I don't think I make a very good Sara-Stand-In."

Wendy ran her hand over her unpainted lips, probably trying to wipe away the invisible remains of hours old vomit.

Sofia shook her head. "Everyone gets sick at their first bad scene."

Wendy looked up, miserably. "Did you?"

"All over a Sergeant Detective's shoes."

Since that made Wendy smile, Sofia decided not to mention that the sergeant had been her own mother and she'd been ten at the time. It was a long story and it would only bring Wendy down. "And it wasn't half as bad as this place. If you can get through this, you can get through anything the job will throw at you." That, at least, was the absolute truth.

Wendy sighed. "I saw the pics and I deal with blood every day, I mean I practically pay my rent in blood. So I thought that I…" She shook her head. "I thought I was," Wendy frowned as though searching for the proper word, "prepared."

Sofia pushed her hands into her pockets, searching vainly for a toothpick. "I don't care how badass Catherine Willows thinks she is or how cool, removed and stoic Grissom acts, no one is prepared for this."

"Tell me about it."

Both women turned, Wendy only a few seconds behind Sofia, to see an exhausted Greg Sanders coming their way. He fell onto the chair opposite of Wendy and leaned back. "This is the worst scene in a _long_ time." He shook his shaggy head, "Warrick and Sara get shit work for the rest of the year for getting out of it."

Sofia smirked, because the remark was about half sarcastic, half serious. The two CSIs would be handling any and all menial, dirty and/or fecal-matter-related tasks for a while.

"So what do you think?"

While the show was undeniably being run by Grissom and Catherine, Greg was a good CSI and had a sharp mind. She respected both of those traits and his opinions.

Greg blew out a breath. "Sara was right. I ran a print we pulled off of the murder weapon–"

"The bat?" There had been several bloody blunt objects found in the room and Sofia wanted to be exact.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I scanned the print through the mobile lab and it came back as a match to Marsh and Abernathy's murderer. It's the same woman, only this time she was on the warpath. Catherine said she couldn't even count the number of hits because of overlapping spatter and cast off. She's going to have to wait for Doc's report and then go back and attempt to string it after she gets in from the hospital."

Wendy shuddered. "We bagged the bat, the lamp and Nick took the bathroom door completely off the hinges."

Sofia had seen the room, had helped Nick fume the body for oil on oil prints. "The dress and shoes?"

Wendy shrugged again. "The dress was thrown around and had some blood on it, but I've worked with worse. Nick hit the jackpot, though, he found a pair of women's earrings along with some hairs that may or may not be hers."

Sofia nodded; there was so much going on that it was hard to keep up with everything. "What's Catherine doing at the hospital, anyway? Jim knows what he's doing."

Greg only shrugged again. "You know Catherine."

* * *

Desert Palms Hospital

Emergency Receiving Center

It was never glamorous, dramatic or even that exciting. It wasn't _Grey's Anatomy_ or _ER_ or even _Scrubs_; hospital emergency rooms were cold, uncomfortable and they reeked of desperation. The ER smelled exactly like the morgue. That made sense, of course; both places had to be sterile. The obvious logic didn't make the knot in her stomach dissipate or the goose bumps on her arms relax.

While the morgue played host to Vegas's violently or mysteriously departed, the ER was a major crossroads of injury, disease and death, exotic and mundane, violent and quietly accepted. Good things rarely happened in the ER. There were only various degrees of pain and different shades of bad news. It was a thoroughly depressing place to be.

Catherine paused outside of the small examination room the harried nurse had pointed her towards and took a moment to compose herself. She was glad that the Roggens had been given a room to themselves instead of a few curtained off feet in the main ward. The trauma they had suffered and the great sorrow that had barely set in was too much to be shoved between a gang banger with a bullet wound and a five-year-old with a bad cough. She looked around quickly, to make sure no one was paying attention, and lifted the chart from its pocket on the wall. If she ignored certain parts, like pulse and blood pressure readings, it was just like an autopsy report, more or less.

Martin Roggen was the luckiest unlucky man in Vegas. She had seen falls like that paralyze and even kill men. Not that he had gotten off too lightly: a broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, sprained neck and cracked coccyx. It all seemed relatively minor when you considered that his sixteen year old son had been butchered.

Sixteen. The newest injustice burned in her chest like a hot poker. He hadn't been a man, bar mitzvah or no; he had been a boy. A boy who played baseball and video games. He was Lindsey's age for God's sake. If he hadn't lived in Boulder City, they would have been classmates. Lindsey would have probably thought he was cute. She'd told Gil that she was the most qualified to speak the parents and walk them through the process of getting their fingerprints and DNA samples to eliminate their prints from the one's they'd pulled. She was the mother of a teenager, after all. She knew that Brass had already come and gone, but they would still have questions for her. The victim's family always had questions and since it was their young son on a slab, they deserved answers. She would want, demand, answers if she was in their shoes. Thank God it wasn't her.

She replaced his chart, smoothed her hair and took a cleansing breath. Catherine let her game face slide on, and she knocked on the door before stepping in.

The room was a crisp white and functional, and those were its good points. The bed, rumpled from several hours of use, was in the center of the small room. There was a small sink and cabinet and a monitor mounted on the wall.

Both Roggens looked up as she came in and she immediately felt out of place. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Catherine Willows from the crime lab." She paused. "I can't even begin to understand what you're going through. My team and I are working as hard and fast as we can. I know this is difficult, but I need your help so we can find who did this to Adam."

The room was quiet, but for the sounds of footsteps in the corridor, for a moment. Then Mrs. Roggen, Tora, if Catherine remembered correctly, looked up.

"Is that your usual speech, Ms. Willows, or did you have to practice that in the car on the drive over from my baby's murder scene?"

Everyone handled grief differently and this wasn't the first time she'd dealt with an angry mother.

"Mrs. Roggen, I know this is a very difficult time for you, but–"

The woman glared at her. "Save your _heartfelt_ apologies for someone who is dumb enough to believe you care. All I want to hear from you is who killed my son and why. All you're doing here is wasting my time. I am waiting to find out if my husband has a broken back and I still have to make arrangements for my baby boy. So if you don't mind I would love some privacy." She shook her head. "I haven't called my mother, our Rabbi or—you know what, just get out!"

"Tora, don't."

Tora looked down at her husband for a moment and smiled a little before snapping her head around to glare at Catherine again. She had short dark hair that had been neatly styled hours ago and eyes that were engulfed by dark circles. She was a pretty woman with an ugly scowl and it was aimed at Catherine.

"Mrs. Roggen, I am _trying_ to help you. I just need to ask a few questions that will allow us to continue with the investigation."

"Can I answer them?"

Marty Roggen was still in a c-collar, flat on his back on the hospital bed. He was in no shape to answer questions.

Catherine shook her head. "Mr. Roggen you need to re–"

"I have been laying flat on my back for hours, _thinking_. Answering questions can't be any worse." He couldn't sit up or turn his head; he was talking to the ceiling.

"Honey, why don't you take a walk, go try to get Josh or Rabbi Eli on the phone and get some coffee." Tora opened her mouth again, but was cut off before she started. "I'll be fine. I _need_ to help." Both Roggens fell silent for a moment. It was the sort of wordless conversation that couples often had. Catherine couldn't remember if she and Eddie had ever had those.

"All right." Mrs. Roggen took a step away. "If she pushes you too hard or you get tired, call a nurse."

"Okay."

Tora reached the door and looked back over her shoulder. "Remember what the doctor said. You can't move."

"I know."

Tora glared at Catherine. "I'll be right outside."

Marty blew out a sigh as his wife's footsteps receded. "I'm sorry. It's just that we—that I—Adam."

Catherine stepped closer so she could look down at him and he up at her. "It's okay. She has every right to be upset. You both do.

Marty only sighed again. "I wish I could sit up or move my neck. The doctors are still checking for hairline fractures. Tora's been worrying herself sick. She's not usually so," he paused to think of the right word, "confrontational."

Catherine shook her head. "It's all right. Her maiden name wasn't Sidle by any chance, was it? You know what, never mind. I just need to ask you a few questions."

Marty let out another sigh. "Ask away."

Marty Roggen answered her questions to the best of his ability and she had gotten most of the information she needed before the nurse shooed her out. Early morning sunshine poured through a window somewhere and random beams of yellow light filtered down the hallway.

Catherine pushed her fingers through her limp bangs for what seemed like the millionth time. This night-day-whatever was dragging her down. She almost wished the FBI would swoop in and take it off their hands. She didn't have much left to do; since both of the Roggens worked up at the dam, their prints were already in the system.

"Thank you, Homeland Security."

All she had to do was drop her notes off at the evidence vault and she could go home. She would go home, see her daughter and listen to her mother prattle on. It would be wonderfully mundane and normal.

She was just about to turn the corner to leave the altogether too familiar Desert Palms ER when Tora Roggen walked by. Walked? No, she staggered as if she had spent the last thirty minutes drinking hard liquor. Only Catherine was one-hundred percent certain that there was no bar in the hospital.

"Mrs. Roggen." She reached out to touch the other woman's arm. "Are you okay?"

The angry woman of before dissolved right before her eyes.

"Josh. My Joshie."

Catherine wanted to shake her head; it was Adam that was dead.

Tora Roggen looked at her with wide hazel eyes. "Why would God take both of my sons in one single night?"

Catherine took the trembling woman in her arms and she couldn't even imagine the pain she was suffering.

"I'm sorry. I'm just—sorry."

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, there just aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done. So if you've found that magical 25th hour, please let me know.


	46. Chapter XLV: Caught!

_Chapter XLV_

_Caught!_

She didn't want to open her eyes. Her head hurt and opening her eyes would only make things worse. Her stomach felt raw, her throat was sandpaper and she felt like she'd been dragged through the desert with her tongue out.

Sara Sidle cracked open one bleary eye and looked around. She rolled onto her back with a groan and tried to put all the facts together. She was wrapped up in vivid green sheet. The sheets on her bed at home were a delicate gold color. She wasn't in her own bed. She peeked under the thin cotton sheet and let out a very embarrassing squeak. She wasn't in her own bed and she wasn't wearing clothes, could it get any worse? The realization settled in cold and fast, like a bucket of ice water. She was still in Alex's suite. She had slept in Alex's bed, probably with Alex.

She was never drinking tequila again.

She sat up and looked around for one or both of her cell phones. She didn't see either her department-issued phone or her Blackberry.

"Damn."

She half rolled and half flopped to the edge of the large bed. She couldn't believe she'd let herself be so damn stupid. She peeked under the sheet that she was still clinging to and felt her face go from tinged red to completely scarlet. She wasn't naked; she was wearing a lacy pair of panties in a pretty shade of baby blue. Only she didn't own a pair of skimpy blue panties, which made things oh-so-much better.

Sara looked around the opulent master bedroom and couldn't see her clothes anywhere. The floor was devoid of the twin trail of thrown and tossed articles she was expecting. Her head was screaming, her stomach was sourly protesting and she simply didn't have the patience for a post-coital clothing search. Ugh, now there was a train of thought she'd hoped to never have again. She'd had wild drunken sex with her ex, or at least she might have.

She was never drinking again, period.

She pulled the sheet around her and fashioned it into a make-shift toga. The fact that her covering up was completely moot did not escape her. She would like to at least pretend she had a few shreds of dignity left.

She got to her feet, a little shaky but not falling down drunk anymore, and padded to the bedroom's beautiful double doors. Her feet silently sank into the carpet with each step.

"Alex." Her voice was almost a whisper. "Lexa, you here?" Lexa had always been her personal pet name for the other woman and it felt both strange and familiar to say it again. "I can't believe I'm saying this," her voice was louder and filled with a touch of sarcasm now, as it bounced out into the main room, "but where are my clothes?"

* * *

Capitan Jim Brass shook his head once again. "You got the warrant, but I still don't like it." Catherine only shrugged, but he went on. "I don't know why the judge signed off on it, it's shaky."

Catherine smiled, and it was the sharp and predatory look of a wild animal on the hunt. "Judge Roth owed me a favor. Besides, we are all ready to get this bitch off of our streets."

Jim watched his reflection in the elevator door run its hand over its balding head. "The ID wasn't as squeaky clean as it needed to be."

He wasn't stretching the truth, not even a little. The kid, Will Jarman, who went by Dozer, was not the most reliable of witnesses. He had been drinking, for one. He hadn't been wasted, but alcohol was still alcohol. Then there had been the small detail of the crumpled, thrashed and decimated remains of the car he had been cut out of. The car he'd been riding in had crossed three lanes of traffic, taking another car, a taxi, and a panel van out along the way, before going through the guard rail and into an empty stretch of dusty desert between a couple of half-finished strip malls. He had been damn lucky that they hadn't plowed into a building. His two party buddies hadn't fared so well. Luis Nelo, the boy in the passenger seat, had been D.O.A and three surgeons had worked on Joshua Roggen, the driver, for hours. They had pronounced him dead less than six hours after his younger brother. Mr. Jarman had been the lucky one; he might walk again one day.

After all of the booze, trauma, surgery and meds, Jim wondered if the kid would be able to recognize his own mother. He was sure, though, adamant even, that the picture Catherine had shown him was the woman that Adam Roggen had left with.

Jim Brass wasn't one to discount the ideas and theories of others and he had to admit that if Catherine was right, everything fell into place. It would close the case and tie it up with a nice neat bow, if Catherine was right. He had known the woman for several years and she was more often right than wrong, but she was not infallible.

"Tox on _our_ vic came back negative, Desert Palm's in-house test on the late Josh Roggen was positive. She killed all those boys in one fucking swoop."

He shook his head, wanting to close this case just as much as anyone else. He was dead tired of finding butchered men in his city. "Let's go."

The elevator slid to a smooth and silent stop at the penthouse level. Jim hadn't seen the inside of such an expensive suite so many times since Sam Braun had died

Prancing around in pretty clothes paid very well—far better than a cop. Even with benefits and overtime he couldn't afford fifteen minutes in this mini-mansion on his cop's salary.

Even the rich and those who rubbed elbows with them, though, could be scum. Through and through complete and utter murderous scum.

Jim pushed those thoughts back and locked them into what he thought of as his 'cop vault'. It was the mental plane where he stored the horrors he saw and the dark thoughts that haunted him.

He locked his emotions in the vault and knocked on the door.

It flew open on the first rap of his knuckles.

"Ghandi on a fucking unicycle, what the hell took you so long? Get the hell in here, Jeni. God, she's going to—oh fuck me, it's you again."

Alexandra Dupree hadn't even turned all the way around yet. Jim was a cop, but that didn't make him any less of a man. As a man, he could not help but admire the picture the model made.

She had obviously not been expecting company. The blonde woman was barely decent, dressed only in a white silk robe that hit her mid-thigh. It was loosely belted and slipped off to reveal one sculpted shoulder. She wasn't wearing makeup and her hair was a wild mess, falling in her eyes and sticking out wildly all over her head. Was her wildly disheveled look genuine or just another put on? Judging from the room's condition, bottles scattered around and a small garbage bag full to bursting with something, he was pretty sure that it was the former.

"Fucking slimy sons of bitches, if you two don't have a fucking warrant then so help me fucking God I will sue your assess so far back into the damn Stone Age that you will have to take out a Goddamned loan to pay the parking meter."

It was her eyes, summer blue and bloodshot from whatever it was she had done the night before, which gave her away. She was averting her eyes and he didn't think it was just because she was cursing and lying. There was something or someone in the suite that she didn't want them to see and Dupree was looking their way.

Jim popped the strap on his holster and looked at Catherine. The woman wasn't a cop, but she had good instincts. She had her hand on the butt of her gun and her eyes on Alexandra Dupree. She was just waiting for the other woman to make one false move.

His heart rate picked up and he felt the flutter and jump of adrenaline soaking into his system. It was what got recruits to sign up with the academy and kept grass green rookies working through midnight shit shifts in the worst part of town. The anticipation, the rush, the insert of danger, the flirting with destruction, disaster and death was what kept the captains and commanders from getting comfortable in their chairs behind their desks.

He moved smoothly down the short hallway that led to the master bedroom and bath. He could hear it now, the subtle sounds of someone moving around: rattling things, soft steps on carpet. Dupree's curses and Catherine's sharp bark of "Shut up" were reduced to white background noise.

He could hear someone running water and moving around behind the door on his right. There was someone in the bathroom. He put his hand on the ornate knob and pulled it slowly.

* * *

Her courage had failed her three feet away from the bedroom door, which was convenient because the bathroom's second door had been right there on her left. Inside she had found the mess that screamed that Alex had been there. She had always been rather tidy herself, but Alex had the amazing habit of spreading every bathroom product a human being could imagine all over the room. Sara smiled as she scrubbed last night's aftermath off of her teeth and tongue.

Her talent for coating counters and sinks with cosmetics was not one that she had developed as a model. It stretched back to childhood. That had been one of the embarrassing childhood stories that Michael and Ethan, Alex's brothers, had shared with her. Sara smirked at the mirror and the minty foam on her lips. Alex hadn't changed her brand of toothpaste in almost her whole life. All the dental breakthroughs and she still used plain old Colgate. It was one of those cute Alex things that–

"Oh no."

Her words were muffled by the toothbrush, Alex's, and the toothpaste.

She shouldn't connect Alex and cute anymore. That just simply wasn't a good idea. Not that her head was full of good ideas lately. She started to scrub at her molars and she thought, which wasn't entirely contusive to her headache or her mood.

God, that was just what she needed. She was hip deep in a case, or at least she had been, and here she was standing in a bathroom that was probably bigger then her apartment thinking about her ex.

She was_ really __thinking_ about her. How many years had she spent trying to not thinking about her? Maybe it was the situation, just like Tristan had said. Alex got in trouble with the law and she came running. That was what had happened again, more or less. Was it the situation, the rush of nostalgia or was she really falling back in love with Alexandra Dupree?

Speaking of Alex, the doorknob started to turn. "Lexa, is that you?"

The door flew open with a quick burst and Sara jumped back. Her eyes went wide and her hand went limp. Alex's toothbrush hit the plush carpet about the same time she screamed. She stumbled back and her heel caught on the edge of the sheet, which tugged it down. She tried to pull it up to cover her breasts, which only threw her further off balance. She couldn't grab at the counter because that would compromise her hold on the sheet. She stumbled backwards again; her usually sharp brain was frozen solid. She kept going backwards and holding the sheet, because that was the only thing she could think to do. She only regained her ability to speak, if you could call one word speaking, when her mostly bare back hit the cool glass of the shower door. "Jim!"

The homicide Capitan had his gun up, ready and pointed dead at her. She was a hairs breathe away from getting a double-tap to the chest. Her brain unfroze in the face of copper-washed lead bullets. "Jim, I can't my raise my hands without dropping the sheet and I am not appropriately attired underneath it." It sounded absurdly proper for a woman who looking down the barrel of Glock 9.

Then, as if one gun in her face wasn't bad enough, she saw another.

"Brass, are we clear or should I call dispatch?" Catherine moved in carefully, she too had her Glock in hand and ready to fire and stopped at the door. Whether she stopped because she shouldn't be in the room without Jim calling the all clear or out of shock, Sara didn't know. She didn't want to know, either. She just wished they would either shoot her or disappear.

Sara had watched Brass's face betray his surprise and then something else. It might have been anger or maybe disappointment, she didn't know.

"Yeah, we're clear." She slid his weapon back into its holster. "We're clear."

Catherine's face was much easier to read. First her pale eyebrows rose, then they waggled in amusement, before settling into the firm lines of a scowl.

"Oh, well, isn't this just perfect. Just perfect!"

Sara held the sheet against her body, one arm holding the sheet to her breasts and the other over her stomach and legs.

She knew she should be angry, livid, even. She couldn't make the leap from surprise to angry. She had fallen short of angry. There was a buzz in her head blocking her thoughts. Her knees started to shake beneath the sheet wrapped around them.

"I–"

She stumbled over her own words.

Sara preferred to keep her world orderly and organized. She knew exactly what to say, most of the time, and how to react to what was said. She was the master of her own environment and destiny. Her well-ordered world had gone all to hell in the matter of a few months.

One of the main instigators of her spiral into chaos burst through the door that lead to the bedroom.

"What the fucking hell?!"

Sara looked at Alex, devastatingly sexy and unconcerned about her near-nudity, and then at Jim and Catherine. She knew what they were thinking, and there was a good chance that they were right.

Alex stepped in front of her. "Get the hell out of here, you fucking pervs! Jesus Christ, she's practically naked and you're about to shoot her?! Are you out of your damn minds?"

Catherine's chin went up and she lowered her weapon. "Someone around here is out of her mind." She looked at Sara over Alex's shoulder. "Or far sneakier then I ever gave her credit for."

Jim cleared his throat. "Where is your personal assistant, Ms. Dupree?"

Though Sara could not see Alex's face—the other woman had her back to her—she could easily imagine what it looked like.

"You barge into my suite, point guns at my fucking guest," Sara winced at Alex's poorly chosen words and knew that there was going to be more; with Alex more was always more, "and now you have the cajones to _demand_ to see my damn employee? I don't know what the hell kind of cowboy cop bullshit you usually get away with but it will not fucking fly with me."

Catherine crossed her arms over her chest. "We have a warrant for her arrest."

"You can take that fucking warrant and shove it up your ass, bitch. Where the fuck is my lawyer?!"

Sara stood to the side, back still against the shower, avoiding Jim's eyes and saw what everyone else must see when she was the one arguing with Catherine—only Alex was doing a much better job, curse words and all. It was like the anomaly that she had only heard about in school, an unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object. It was spectacular, a little scary and could have gone on forever.

"Why is everyone in the bathroom?"

Four heads jerked to the source of the new question quickly and in unison.

Jennica Rawlins stood in the open door that led to the master bed room. She had a large bag in each hand. Each had a label that belonged to one of the boutiques that the Paris boasted downstairs in its shopping promenade.

"Capitan Brass, CSI Willows. Alex, what's going on?" The raven-haired younger woman walked over to Sara and put the bags at her feet with a smile. "If you all excuse me, Sara needs to get dressed."

"Where were you last night, Miss Rawlins?"

Jennica did a double take. "Huh?"

Catherine turned to face the younger woman. "Where were you last night from ten p.m. to four a.m.?"

"She's not answering that, she's not saying a fucking thing. Don't you dare say a word, Jeni."

Alex had her hands on her hips and her face was twisted into a snarl.

"She's not saying a damn word and you two are getting the hell out of my rooms, now."

Brass blew out a sigh. "We have a warrant for your arrest, Miss Rawlins."

Her mouth dropped open and Brass stepped forward.

"You have the right to remain silent."

Alex would have stepped forward but in the time it took for Jim to turn Jennica around, Sara stepped forward and put one hand on Alex's shoulder. It effectively stopped her, but her face was a vicious shade of crimson.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

Jennica turned, her wrists pulled behind her back and ratcheted together with handcuffs. "I don't understand, I didn't do anything wrong!"

Catherine looked between Jim and Jennica and Sara and Alex, her face unreadable. "You should come too, Ms. Dupree. We'll let Sara get dressed and then I think she'll have plenty to explain."

"You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney, the state will provide one."

Sara's face was pale again and she held the sheet up with the hand that wasn't holding Alex back. "Catherine, you are taking this way too far."

Her words fell on deaf ears.

"The press is right outside, you can't do this to her. She has nothing to do with any of this!"

Jeni, who was fully handcuffed and being turned around to walk out of the bathroom and to the awaiting squad car tried to turn around. "What is this? I don't even know what's going on!"

Jim sighed. "Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"

Alex scowled. "No, she doesn't because she doesn't know what the fuck is happening, none of us do! What the hell is going on here?"

Catherine turned to leave. "Get dressed and come down to the station, Miss Dupree and you can explain why you've been jetting the Male Mutilator around the country with you.

Sara, still holding her sheet, Alex, still dressed in her skimpy robe, and Jennica, handcuffed and under arrest all stopped short. "WHAT?!"

Author's Note: I love this chapter, outside of the one I am currently writing, it's probably my favorite of the story.


	47. Chapter XLVI: Old College Try

_Chapter XLVI_

_Giving It the Old College Try_

"I've been up so long I can't feel my left butt cheek. I might loose it, ya know."

Sofia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Jesus, Greg, I didn't need to know that."

Greg's hair was spiked wildly around his face, not in any particular style, but because he had been working for several hours over his shift. "So why are we going back to UNLV again?"

Sofia drove with one hand and drank her millionth cup of coffee with the other. "Because everyone else is ignoring this angle. If it makes you feel any better, you were my second pick."

Greg drank his own coffee. "No, surprisingly, that does not help. So while Brass is interviewing the witness and Catherine is interviewing the family, we're going to go get cozy with an on-campus computer?"

"Pretty much."

Greg stretched in his seat. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a little on the anti-social side?"

The morning traffic through the city was sluggish. "I just happen to believe in covering all of your bases."

Greg closed his eyes behind his dark tinted sunglasses. "And this base couldn't have waited until after a nap?"

Sofia put her coffee in the cup holder and moved her driving hand up to the twelve o'clock position so the wheel wouldn't jerk. Then she punched Greg in the arm.

That did make her feel better—no wonder Nick, Warrick and Sara did it so often.

"Ow!" Greg faked a wince. "You're grumpy when you don't get enough sleep."

They spent the rest of the drive to UNLV in companionable silence that was only broken by Greg's occasional sarcastic comment about her grumpiness or his lack of sleep.

She pulled into one of the open spots in front of the building that housed the university's internal police. Though she hadn't gone to UNLV, Sofia felt rather comfortable. She had spent many hours at her own school's security office. There were students hanging around, waiting to pay parking tickets or file reports, but Sofia didn't get in line to talk to one of the work-study kids working the windows. She cut around the side, towards the offices, and flashed her badge as she went. Capitan McNeely—Mick—was waiting for them.

The squad room was small, compared to the one she was used to working in back at PD, but for a mid-sized college it wasn't too shabby. One wall was taken up by monitors that showed different sections of the school's public areas and main entrances and exits to every one of the facility's buildings, including dorms. Another wall had several large maps of the school and the area around it. There were six desks, three of which were currently occupied with a uniformed officer doing whatever they were assigned to do. There was a computer on each desk, very little clutter and an air of professionalism. UNLV's Campus Police Force took its job very seriously.

One of the officers, a twenty-something pretty boy with styled blonde hair and dimples, finally looked up. "Can I help you?" His eyes darted to her belt. "Detective and-"

Sofia turned to face him. "I'm Detective Curtis and this is Greg Sanders from the Crime Lab. Mick's expecting us."

The officer rolled back in his chair. "Yeah, he said something about some townies coming in. What do you need?"

Greg looked at her, then shrugged. "I have a list of search parameters that I want to run against your student, faculty and staff database. Hopefully I can narrow down our suspect base."

"That's allot of I's for a guy who's not touching our database."

Greg crossed his arms over his chest. "We have a warrant."

Officer Dimples only shrugged. "Yeah, and you'll get the information faster if someone who knows what they're doing handles it." He snatched the papers out of Greg's hands and looked over them. "Looks easy enough."

Sofia watched, a little surprised, as the young man attacked the keyboard with ease. Most of the LVPD cops didn't work well with computers. Some of the older officer preferred not to use them at all.

Officer Dimples looked over at one of the other uniforms. "Hey, Cassandra, I'm linking up to the big screen." The thick-set woman only mumbled off a reply, but her coworker didn't seem to notice.

A twenty-seven inch television on a rolling cart flickered on and revealed the program that Officer Dimples had running on his desktop computer. It didn't look far off from the several databases that they used.

Officer Dimples started to type furiously. "You want the females, which is actually fifty-two percent of our student body and thirty percent of faculty, fifty-three percent of the staff."

"Students," Sofia interjected. "I want to narrow it down to female students, upperclassmen but not grad students. She is a Caucasian female, probably brunette."

Dimples hit a few keys. "Anything else?"

Greg looked at the screen, his head cocked to the side. "Does the university have a record of student's high schools?"

Dimples swiveled back and forth in his chair. "Yeah, sure, what school would you like?"

Greg shook his head. "Any school that starts with an M."

The officer pushed cracked his knuckles. "Now that's a challenge."

Sofia ran the numbers through her head. UNLV's average student number, around half of that were female. How many were brunette, how many went to an M high school? Fifty, seventy, two hundred? They only needed _one_.

She and Greg watched the television screen and Dimples watched his own screen. Time stretched out and dragged on. Sofia held her breathe and watched the little hour glass spin and spin.

Sofia's feet hurt, and her legs ached from ankle to hip. Even her ass hurt, but she wouldn't say that to Greg. Her back, neck and shoulders were knotted, hard and pulled as tight as piano wire. Her eyes felt like they were full of grit, her head was heavy and her thoughts bogged down and all she wanted to do was sleep. She wanted to sleep for twelve hours straight in her soft bed in her comfortable, air-conditioned bedroom. That was where she wanted to be, but here she was in a tiny, gray, second-rate security room on a college campus following a lead that no one else deemed important enough to look into.

She was waiting for the basic information that a half-assed cop had plugged in to the computer to magically reveal the killer. This case wouldn't be solved by the feats of her mind, the sweat of her brow, the smoke of her burnt shoe leather. There would be no sudden inspiration or insight that would reveal who, why and how. That bull was reserved for television, movies and badly written mystery novels. She, and others, had spent weeks on this case. There had been postponed dates, missed birthday parties and broken promises. The press was following their every move: speculating, accusing and throwing bright lights on things that were better left in shadow. The higher ups were breathing down their necks. They wanted movie-magic minute long DNA tests, fifteen minute interrogations and an hour-long open and shut case and they wanted it yesterday.

All that work, all that time. All the speculation and expectations and it came down to Officer Dimples and his computer.

"Okay, I have forty possible."

Greg turned to look at him. "Forty?" The run-down CSI scrubbed at his scruffy five and some extra hour's shadow. "How many live on campus?"

They watched the television screen as Dimples scrolled down to get the information. "About half, so let me exclude them."

Sofia wanted to strangle him. "You can't exclude them just because they live in a dormitory."

"Yes he can."

Sofia and Greg turned to see Mick come in. Beads of perspiration stood out on his bald head and his face was fire-engine red. "It's hot as a steel mill in hell out there." He helped himself to a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and took a long drink. After he re-capped the Dasani he cleared his throat. "Like I said, he can exclude anyone who lives on-campus because curfew has been in effect since the day after the Marsh incident."

Greg only shrugged. "There are always ways to get around a curfew." He sounded like he was speaking from experience. Knowing Greg, he probably was.

"You seriously think a curfew is going to keep these kids safe, sound and in their dorms?"

Mick rounded on her as soon as the words left her lips.

"I know that my kids know how serious this is. How many blue-paint killers, strip-stranglers, miniature killers and male-mutilators do you think it takes to get them scared? I may not be a _detective _but I know how to keep this campus safe. I've got a list of every single exception student and my team has been doing room-to-rooms every night." He looked away for a moment, "Cass, run these 40 kids against our exception and no-show lists." He glared back at Sofia. "Unless the detective wants to check every card swipe and log-on herself, by hand."

Sofia threaded her fingers through her hair, pushing it back away from her face. She had obviously stepped on his toes and pride. That was exactly what she hadn't needed to do, too.

"Mick, Capitan, we've been on our feet so long we're barely standing. I didn't mean to step on your toes. We all know you run a tight ship."

Mick only nodded, but that was enough to tell Sofia that he wasn't going to hold it against her, much.

"Tyler!"

The third officer, who had been quiet so far, jumped in his seat. "Yes, sir?"

He had rookie written all over him and Sofia almost felt bad for him.

"Get your thumb out of your butt and run these names to see if anything pops up on their records."

"Yes, sir!"

He started to type with such enthusiasm that Sofia could actually hear each and every harder-than-necessary keystroke.

"What makes you so sure that one of my kids is involved?"

Mick folded his freckled arms over his burly chest, obviously not satisfied with what he'd already heard.

"The media is convinced that you've fingered Alexandra Dupree for the murders."

Sofia massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. The very mention of Dupree and the situation surrounding her, namely Sara's involvement, inspired a headache. "Those leeches would latch onto any theory right about now. Today it's Dupree, tomorrow it's Elvis."

Mick didn't look especially convinced. "Scuttlebutt says it's a cult killing spree."

Sofia wanted to let out a groan, did it never end?

Luckily Greg had a reply ready: "We're looking into several angles, not Elvis yet, but we haven't counted anything out."

Mick gave Greg a long look. "No roaming kid gangs this time?"

Greg's face went still and hard, his fists clenched tight enough to turn his knuckles blanch white. Sofia was a step faster and she threw her arm out in front of Greg. Fatigue fell away and her teeth clenched.

"That was uncalled for, Capitan McNeely. If you have a problem with my team, you take it to the Sheriff. In the meantime, I am serving a warrant and I want the results. Do you have a problem with that?"

Greg put his hand on the arm she had thrown up in front of him. It was difficult to tell who was holding back whom.

Sofia didn't move an inch, her intense blue eyes locked on to the other man's watery brown.

"Do you have a problem with that, McNeely?"

"Sir."

All three turned, somewhat reluctantly, to look at Officer Dimples; Tyler and Cassandra were all huddled around Dimples' desk. The woman, Cassandra, looked at them. "We narrowed it down to six."

Mick went over to the computer. "Just six?"

The three campus security officers motioned them over.

Dimples hit a few keys and six faces and names appeared on the television screen.

Sofia looked over them one by one. Their pictures and information were bold and embossed against a scarlet red background.

"Tell me about them."

Dimples waited for his Capitan's approval and only when he got it did he proceed.

The first picture enlarged until it took up half of the stream. The other side filled with the pertinent information that was on the university's database.

"Joanna Adams, she's a junior."

Sofia listened to Dimples speak and she stared at the picture. The woman, girl, fit the physical profile, but her only record was one for possession of marijuana and another for possession of alcohol. Both had been in small quantities. This wasn't what she was looking for. There were certain signs, certain disturbances that she was looking for.

"Next."

Anne Chandra, Chloe Franklin, Haley Lewis, Jennifer Scott and Simone Thamee were also unremarkable.

Sofia pinched the bridge of her nose again. "No, none of them look good for it." She tried to think, but was coming up with nothing.

Beside her Greg cleared his throat. "These are just confirmed cases you've charged and booked the kids for, right?"

Mick nodded and waited for Greg to continue.

"Do you keep a record of complaints, or suspicions that never really went anywhere, cold cases?"

The three campus officers went quiet and Mick sighed. "No, we don't have the manpower to log every little thing. There could be some of that on end-of-shift reports but none of those are centralized or even on the database."

Greg looked disappointed and Sofia understood why. Their long-shot was getting longer and longer.

The thing about covering bases, though, was that sometimes on your last swing, you hit a grand slam. The only difference between a grand-slam and a strike out was perseverance and the will to keep swinging the bat.

"Okay,"

She shook her arms out to get rid of the kinks in her shoulders as she started to pace and tick off what they knew about the killer.

"We are looking for a Caucasian, female upperclassman. She is now a brunette but hair color can be changed. She definitely has pierced ears. She may be a chemistry major and she may or may not be on one of the school's sports or intramural teams."

Mick, Dimples, Tyler and Cassandra looked at her.

"That doesn't give us much to work with."

Mick was right of course, but she waved them off.

"She probably has issues with authority. So think of anyone who's had arguments or even fights with peers, RAs, professors even."

She had been trying to get inside of the killer's head for so long, and now it was paying off.

"She didn't just become violent out of the blue. There would have been signs, indicators. Think back over the past three to four years. Fighting with professors or other students or—"

Sofia froze as she thought; making connections that she hadn't before.

"She might have claimed that a professor solicited her for a good grade. She may have even claimed that he raped her. Don't limit yourselves to that, though. She's a chronic or maybe even a pathological liar. She may have a tendency for theft or fire setting."

"She might have started small, killing animals in and around campus," Greg commented. Now, of course, they were giving a basic profile. It was not tailored to their killer, exactly, but serial killers tended to fall into one or two basic profiles.

Sofia crossed her arms. "She's comfortable in social situations but possibly rebellious, a rabble-rouser, if you will. Do any names, anybody at all, come to mind?"

For a moment no one spoke and Sofia wanted to put her fist through the wall.

"I think, well, maybe there's this girl."

All eyes turned to Cassandra and the pudgy over-permed redhead shrugged. "At the end of this last spring semester we had an incident. We could never peg down who did it, but I got some bad vibes off this one girl."

The other officers looked on and Dimples almost jumped out of his chair. "That freak?" He actually smacked himself on the forehead. "Why didn't I think of that before? Tell them, Cass."

Sofia and Greg, along with Mick and Tyler turned again to Cassandra and she began.

"We had an RA, fifth year senior, he graduated with honors. He was a good kid; anyway, he had this pet. Now school policy permits fish and caged rodents, but he petitioned the housing department for permission to bring his iguana on campus. He was allowed because Randal, the lizard, was perfectly tame, fat, and content to drape himself on Vince's computer monitor. He actually became sort of a floor mascot." The redhead sighed. "So last semester, right between midterms and finals I get a call out to the dorms. Vince was beside himself, hysterical and almost crying, said Randal was dead. I was about to smack him for calling me down for a DOA lizard, but then I saw it."

The woman actually paled a little. "That iguana wasn't just dead. Somebody mutilated it all to hell. I'm saying they sliced it up like a frog over in the bio lab. They cut him open, sliced him from throat to tail, gouged his eyes out, cut his tongue and tail off and they disemboweled him and left it all in the middle of Vince's bed. It was the sickest thing I'd ever seen, and I'm not going to lie to you, I had to run to the nearest toilet."

Sofia, unfortunately, didn't have any problems imagining it.

"Did you have any suspects?"

Cassandra leaned against Dimples' desk. "I talked to everyone on that floor and to Vince all day. Nobody saw anything and the only person who'd ever had a problem with Vince lived on the next floor down. When I went to talk to her she was, well, I didn't like her." The woman shook her head. "She'd filled out several reports, noise and behavior and so on, against Vince, but claimed that as an RA he got out of everything." The woman's green eyes widened. "She even accused him of trying to grope her."

Greg nodded. "Did you have any solid evidence?"

Cassandra sighed. "No, which was why I could never close the case. Vince graduated and the girl moved off-campus but it's nagged at me ever since."

Sofia nodded, and uncrossed her arms. "Do you remember her name?"

Cassandra nodded. "It's hard to forget."

The girl's name was only four syllables, but once she heard it Sofia felt everything click into place. She grimaced when the realization set in; they'd had her all along and never realized it.

"Can we get a location on her, _now_?"

The officers started moving and Sofia felt her heart rate pick up. With a little luck, they had her.


	48. Chapter XLVII: A Half Step Ahead

_Chapter XLVII_

_A Half Step Ahead_

She didn't need Jim, Jeff McKeen, Rory Atwatter or anyone else to tell her how important this arrest was. It had to go down quick, clean and without a hitch. She wasn't waiting for backup, though Greg had volunteered. She needed the young CSI back in the security room gathering all the information he could. That's what she had told him, but they had both known why she wanted him to stay behind. The memory of his beating at the hands of a swarm of blood thirsty teenage thrill-killers was still too fresh in both of their minds.

Mick and his team, whether she liked it or not, was her backup. The man was cooperating but still didn't like the idea of a "townie" cop running amuck on his campus. That, Sofia grudgingly admitted, was reasonable. Besides, she didn't know the layout like the campus cops did and in the end that could be the deal breaker.

She was in the library, a structure that Sofia had seen on her other visits to the school, but had never been in. They had tracked her to a computer on the library's third floor. It had actually been very simple: each student and faculty member was given an alpha-numeric ID and password and they used them to access on-campus computers. Their girl was using a computer on the third floor of the library. If the arrest turned ugly she wouldn't be able to waltz into this particular library again, which was a pity since she'd already been banned from Barnes and Noble for life. You would think they would have been happy to have a rapist-murderer out of their midst, and the city had reimbursed them for the window, the stack of coffee mugs, the couch and the table.

She shook her head to clear out the extraneous thoughts and focused. Mick had given her one of his team's walkie-talkies so she could communicate with them. At the moment Dimples and Tyler were filling in two other officers and Mick was giving her the library specs.

The building was three stories in addition to the three story parking garage that it shared some of its space with.

The building was large, sandstone in color and blocky. The many windows reflected the cloudless blue sky in their copper toned mirror tint that allowed the patrons to look out over the picturesque campus. Sofia looked up at the window and wondered if the murderer was looking down at them. Even in plainclothes she felt conspicuous. It was hard not to considering the radio Mick had given her had a cord leading up to the speaker lodged against the shell of her ear like a black parasite.

She depressed the small button on the in-cord mic, "I'm going in."

They had decided that Dimples and Tyler would cover the emergency exits and Mick would stay on the main floor while Sofia ran point. She was about the right age to be a grad or PhD candidate or professor and wouldn't raise the same sort of interest that Mick and his team would.

The library's only public entrance and exit was at the top of a large flight of stairs that seemed to be a gathering point for students. None of them paid her any mind, as they were too busy talking about an upcoming tests, girl trouble, boy trouble and weekend events. She took the steps two at a time and caught the closing library door with ease. The young couple she brushed past didn't even give her a second look.

The cool air hit her in the face and she let out a sigh of relief in spite of herself. This library was larger than the one she and Sara had been to, but the quiet was very much the same. Every up-tight starchy old librarian who'd ever lived and died was about to roll over in their graves. The image was rather amusing, actually.

She opted to use the stairs rather than the elevator that they wrapped around. She didn't want the ding to alert anyone on the third floor to her arrival. "Besides," she mumbled to herself as she navigated the stairs, "I could always use a little more cardio in my work out."

She hit the second floor and went around the elevator and to the second set of spiral stairs without losing a step or sparing a glance. Sofia's feet touched the carpet of the third floor and she looked around quickly and spotted the computer that her killer was supposed to be using. The screen was a blank red broken only by a gray sign-in box, and the chair was empty.

Greg's voice crackled in her ear: "She's logged off."

A ding sounded off to her right and Sofia turned, anxious and ready. The two young men in the elevator didn't look particularly impressed. The other elevator was closed and the down arrow mounted on the wall beside it glowed a faint orange.

Sofia turned on her heel and started going back down the stairs. She hit the small button of the headset to activate the microphone, saying, "She's in the elevator, going down. I'm on the stairs."

Another voice sounded off in her ear, she was pretty sure it was Mick. "I'm covering the first floor and the boys are going around to the emergency exits. We'll get her."

Sofia hit the second flight of stairs just in time for Mick to curse into the radio. "Elevator's empty."

At first, Sofia thought it might have been coincidence, or piss-poor luck. Now she knew better: they'd been made. She turned again and started back up the stairs to the second floor. She should have known. She had seen the computer terminal long enough to know that their killer had a clear view at the windows and a lovely view of the sidewalks three stories bellow.

She itched to pull her gun. She had, at Mick's request, removed her holster and pocketed her badges but she had outright refused to leave her gun locked up tight in his security office. She had her police-issue Glock riding against the small of her back and her throw-away strapped to her ankle.

She got to the second floor and looked around, her eyes taking in everything. She grit her teeth and did a second sweep of the room.

"Got her."

She was half way across the room, backpack slung over her shoulder. Sofia moved to the left and ducked into the shelves.

"Criminal Justice? You're a cruel and unusual man, Dewey."

She worked around the end of the stack and turned to go up the next aisle and met the eye of the woman she was after. For a moment they both stood stock-still, and then the girl bolted.

"Damn!" Sofia hissed mostly to herself. She started to run and on an afterthought, hit the mic button. "She's running." She didn't wait for an answer and just kept running. She skidded on the knobby carpet and had to grab the edge of one of the heavy wooden bookshelves to steady herself. Eyes sharp, she looked around. The bitch was already at the stairs and going down. Sofia picked up her speed and quickly turned sideways to dodge between two tables. Her feet moved without much thought as she pivoted back to a full run. She hit the stairs and scowled because she couldn't see the woman. She took the stairs two at a time, and could feel the momentum building, hitting the first floor at almost a full sprint. Shoving her way through a small crowed waiting in line to check out their assorted books, she looked around again, her blonde hair swinging wildly across her face. The bitch was halfway to the door.

Sofia started to run again. She could feel the fabric of her pants rubbing against her skin and the muscles of her les bunching and pulling. She shoved and dodged around the loitering students.

"Move! LVPD! MOVE!"

Ahead of her by however many paces, the raven-haired man-killer paused and looked back.

Sofia smirked at the beginner's mistake and pushed herself to full-court-press speed.

The girl's eyes went wide and she stumbled to start running again.

Sofia was going to have her before she got to the door.

That would have been the case, except the girl threw an elbow at her face. The elbow was a metaphor for an entire rolling cart full of books and her face was her entire being. Because she had been so close behind her there was no time for Sofia to stop, change direction or even pivot to dodge. She ran right into it at three-quarters speed and went down hard and fast. Books went everywhere and Sofia barely had time to put her hands out to stop herself from breaking her nose on the carpeted floor. Students all around her reacted; some just stood and stared, others started taking pictures and video with their cell phones and one brave young man even moved towards her to help.

She didn't need their help; the killer who had cut down their classmate was getting out of the damn door. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and got to her feet, scattering books all across the floor. She started to move again and knew damn well that if she got to the main hub of campus they would probably lose her.

She pushed the button again while she started to run.

"She's on the stairs!"

Mick's voice answered her back, "Which floor is she headed for?"

Sofia hit the door and pushed it open with her weight and momentum.

"The outside stairs, she's out-fucking-side!"

Not only was she outside, Sofia saw, she was halfway down the stairs.

It was a split second decision, and probably her very last shot. She didn't go down the stairs, she veered to the left and pushed to full speed. Her calves tightened and her quads began to burn.

The stairs were a grand sweep in front of the library, bordered on each side by a low stone wall that was served a double purpose of being a handhold and a perch for students to sit and lean on. It was also wide enough to give her an alternative to the stairs. On the landing she was on, the wall was only two and a half feet high. She made the jump easily and started to run full speed on about a forty degree angle.

Either this would work and she would catch her perp or it was going to hurt—a lot.

She not only caught up with the only woman, she went past her. The end of her make-shift runway was coming up fast and it was down to the wire.

In the end she could only make the leap and hope she didn't break an ankle in the process. She was only airborne for a moment, less than a quarter of a second. It was positively exhilarating. She hit the cement sidewalk and kept going two or three extra steps, her momentum making her overstep where she wanted to be. With the skill honed from long hours of before-and-after school practice, summer skill camps and stubborn pride that didn't allow her to go soft, she pivoted sharply and shuffled with long strides to the right.

She caught the girl with ease.

"You remember me, Kera, I'm with LVPD Homicide and you are under arrest."

By the time Mick, Dimples and Whatever the Other One's Name Was had caught up, she already had Kera Heine in handcuffs and Mirandaized.

Mick ran his hand over his shining, sweat drenched head, obviously out of breath.

"Good God, Detective, did you run track or something?!"

Slightly winded herself, Sofia bent over double to breathe deep and allowed Dimples and his partner to walk Kera back to the sedan that one of the other officers on patrol had parked a few yards away at the entrance of the parking garage.

"No, I played—you know what, never mind." She stood back up. "Sorry for the trouble."

Mick chuckled and clapped her on the back.

"Most excitement I've had in a long time, but I don't think the head librarian is going to be too pleased with you."

Sofia only shook her head. "Trust me, by the time I get Miss Heine back to PD the librarian will have to wait in a _very_ long line."

Author's Note: This chapter is alternativly titled: Mariska Hagerty Eat Your Heart Out. It was a lot of fun to write. It's also something of a preview for 'Mistaken Identity': lots of action with touches of humor, and it will hopefully be shorter then this monster of a fic. Now please review so I feel appreciated!


	49. Chapter XLVIII: Critical Mass

Author's Note: It's been far too long since my last post. I have changed computers, again, and the transfer was actually very smooth. I took a promotion at work and my hours changed and things are getting busy with the holidays coming on. That doesn't mean I haven't been writing. It's quite the opposite, I have this story in the bag. I'm doing a little bit of editing here and there, but for the most part, it's done. This chapter, however, is not beta-read and I'm sure there are errors. In other news, I have decided to start a LiveJournal page. I am not very good with it, I've had them before and given up in frustration, so any pointers will be helpful. It will be another place where I will post my writing and updates and what-not. If I could figure out how other people would get there, I would post the link or address or whichever it is. All right, this chapter is called critical mass because allot of things are happening. Read, enjoy and send along your comments and critiques, please.

_Chapter XLVIII_

_Critical Mass_

Warrick Brown rolled into PD around two in the afternoon, much earlier then the start of his shift. Unlike many of his teammates, though, he hadn't worked all night. He had, on Grissom's suggestion, gone home after he'd gotten back from Laughlin. He was relieving Nick, so the other man could go home and get some sleep. Greg had already gone home and hopefully Cath or Griss would leave when Sara clocked in. They were all on edge and desperately needed sleep.

He rubbed a hand over his face and sat for a minute in the still cool SUV. Then he reached into the glove compartment, his hand paused before pulling the latch to open the storage compartment. The bottle of pills, amber plastic with a typed out label and a white childproof cap didn't look like much. It had two refills left and the bottle was a little more then half empty. It was just a little nudge, a boost to counteract the sleeping pills, also prescribed to him by a doctor, he took the night before. He would take just enough to get through the night. He couldn't do his job if he was drowsy. He dry-swallowed the bitter pills with a quick toss of his wrist. It was no big thing.

Warrick opened the door and felt the oppressive dry heat hit him like a kick to the gut. He pulled his chrome-toned field case out of the Tahoe and closed the door. He locked the Tahoe with the keychain remote out of habit.

"CSI Brown!"

Warrick got less then three paces away from the Tahoe before the mob of reporters surrounded him. Camera flashes half blinded him and he threw up a hand to both hide his face and protect his eyes. That didn't stop them from asking questions. Every single reporter, photographer and cameraman was trying to get his attention. Everyone wanted their questions heard and answered. Questions he wouldn't have responded to even if he had known what the hell was going on.

He vaguely recognized the pretty reporter from Channel 8 shoving a microphone in his face and decided that she wasn't half as good looking in person. Of course she wasn't the only one. He went more on what logo was on the microphone then faces, for the most part, and was surprised at what he saw. Newspapers, CNN and practically every other major news outlet had sent people with a capital P.

"CSI Brown, all we keep hearing is 'no comment, no comment' do you have a comment?"

While he knew the Dupree angle was big, this was getting ridiculous.

Another reporter jumped in before he could reply, "Can you tell us where Sara Sidle is right now and will she be making a statement?"

He grimaced and tried to break away. He definitely didn't have a comment about Sara.

"How is she taking this latest development in the case?"

He had just got here, he didn't even know about this development yet, and he would tell them so if he could get a damn word in. He clamped his mouth shut, held his free hand up in front of his face and tried to get to the PD door.

"Sources inside the Paris, are telling us that CSI Sara Sidle was _in the room_ when the arrest was made this morning and had _spent the night_, do you know if that will have any bearing on this case?"

Another reporter, one he didn't recognize, stepped between him and the door and shoved a digital recorder in his face. "Sources inside the crime lab say that this is not the first sexual indiscretion on Ms. Sidle's record. Do you have a comment on the rumored relationship she had with Gil Grissom, her and your superior?"

Then the writer, if you could call someone whose articles kept birdcages clean a writer, went too far.

"Or are you another one of her inter-office boy-toys?"

The drone of the other questions was drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears.

People could talk smack about him all day long. Bring one of his friends into it and you were begging for a fight. When it came down to it, he would inject mercury in his gloves before letting someone walk all over his _family_.

His fists clenched tight, he could feel his skin harden over his knuckles. He shifted his feet to a shoulder's length apart and tensed his shoulder. He was going to punch the sucker square in his pretty-boy nose with a hard right jab. They would see what kind of questions he asked then.

"He's not worth it, Brown."

Warrick turned, his neck stiff, to see Detective Vega standing at the door.

He didn't even have time to reply, and even if he had, it would have been drowned out by the reporters' questions. Warrick went in, was half pulled through, the door and it closed quickly behind them.

"Buitres"*

Warrick didn't need to know Spanish to agree with the Detective's observation.

Sam Vega wasn't a LVPD poster boy, far from it. His solid build, barrel chest and thick arms and legs, and rough cut face made him look more like a street brawler then a police detective. He was a five o'clock shadow and a pair of sagging jeans away from looking like a thug. He was tough, prickly and had never been overly concerned with politics. Being on the gang task force either wore you down and burnt you out or it toughened you up. It was easy to see which way Vega had gone.

Warrick didn't and couldn't begrudge him that. He didn't like him shoving his nose where it didn't belong. Warrick Brown had always been able to take care of himself.

"There were twenty cameras out there. The last thing we need on the six o'clock news is video of you cleaning one of those bastards' clocks. The last thing Sidle needs is for you to clean one of their clocks."

He didn't like the fact that Vega was right, but it didn't change the fact.

He paused to blow out a sigh and take a deep breath. He massaged his forehead, "I know." He took another breathe, "Fine, what have we got?"

They started walking again, Vega leading him through the maze of hallways and squad rooms.

"You caught the shit shift, man."

Warrick turned to look at Vega, startled out of his thoughts, "Right now no shift comes out roses."

"No," Vega shook his head, "I mean it has hit the fan, big time. You've got three suspects lined up like ducks in rooms one, two and three. We've got lawyers and DAs and I'm sure Atwater will be coming in soon enough to breathe down our necks. It's elbow deep around here and you're right in the middle of the shit storm of the year. Vega handed him the folded warrant, "DNA for all three lovely ladies, fingerprints were taken in booking. There's a uni in each one." Vega started walking away.

"Aren't you going to come in and press them?"

Vega chuckled, "Oh no, this is _Homicide's_ baby and I was just the sitter." Vega handed him the three file folders that presumably belonged to the three suspects in the interview rooms. "I," Vega shook his head, "am on my way to toss Curtis out of her rack, you were just a detour."

Warrick winced; waking an armed woman up after what had probably been only a few hours of sleep didn't sound fun. He almost pitied Vega.

"Oh, by the way, the one in two is a biter."

He could hear Vega chuckling as he turned the corner.

Warrick hoped Sofia woke up like an angry bear with a jerky trigger finger.

The interview rooms had a very simple set up. They were lined up on one side of the hall. There were three unevenly spaced doors marked one, two and three. There was, of course, observation rooms were investigators could record and observe the interrogations but they could only be accessed from the hallway on the opposite side of the bullpen.

Warrick looked at each door, and shuffled the files to get them in order and see exactly what he was up against. Room One had a half hysterical assistant to the stars. Room number two had a silent college student who had bitten the female officer who had tried to do her cavity search in booking. Room Three was the winner though; it had a seething Alexandra Dupree in it.

Warrick scrubbed his hand over his face; he should have called in sick.

* * *

Out of all the humiliations and horrors the only thing that came to her mind was that she looked terrible in bright orange. Jennica would have laughed at that, only if she started laughing she was pretty sure she wouldn't quit, ever.

She was at a complete loss, and had no idea what to do. She had gotten her one phone call, and her brother-in-law, a CSI back home, had promised her that everything would be okay. Only it wasn't okay. David was in San Francisco, which might have well be on a completely different planet then Las Vegas.

They thought she was the Male Mutilator! They actually thought she was a serial killer! She was a member of PETA for crying out loud. If she couldn't stand the idea of killing an animal for food how could they think she could kill a person?! A living, breathing person with a life and friends and everything! Oh god, her mother was going to totally freak. She was only supposed to be Alex's assistant for a few years and then she would be able to move onto any job she wanted in the industry or beyond.

She had listened over and over again to David's "war" stories. She should have listened closer, tried to remember something, anything helpful. Of course she had never imagined that she would be in this sort of situation. She was a glorified gofer, not a killer. She couldn't even stomach those real crime shows.

At least she wasn't handcuffed, thank God for small mercies. The small room they'd had her in for hours and hours was so cold she was shivering. Jennica had drawn her feet up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. She just wanted to go home. The female officer who had handled her the whole time, handled as in actually handled her with her hands, stood silent and unmoving by the door. She hadn't so much as flinched the whole time. She didn't even look cold, but Jennica was freezing. Maybe that was part of the whole interrogation thing, keeping the room like a frickin' freezer. What came next the rubber hoses and phone books?

Like magic, black and twisted, the door opened right on cue. It wasn't the Gestapo or if it was, the Gestapo was kind of cute. She wiggled her arms back around her legs and awkwardly wiped her cheeks with one of her hands. "Are you my lawyer?"

She watched him with wary eyes. He shook his head and put his big chrome case on the table. It wasn't an exact match but it was close enough to her brother-in-laws forensics kit. The man wasn't a cop, exactly, he was a CSI. Well, she was pretty sure he was, at least.

"Hey,"

She looked at him and told herself that she wasn't going to cry again.

"I'm Warrick Brown with the Crime Lab. I just need to do a few simple tests, okay."

Jennica scrubbed at her already red nose. "Don't you need a warrant or something? My brother-in-law works with the San Francisco Police and he told me-"

Warrick tall dark and handsome Brown handed her a sheaf of papers. It looked close enough to the papers they passed around on _Law and Order. _It wasn't like she had anything else to go on. She'd never seen a warrant in her life before coming to Las Vegas. She was a glorified secretary for God's sake.

"Can you hold out your hands please, palms down?"

She jerked, "They a-already fingerprinted me down when they-"Her throat started to close up and she could feel a series of screams bubbling up in her chest. It was getting hard to breathe.

He nodded, "I just need to see your hands."

Jennica nodded and unclasped her fingers from around her knees. The knuckles were white from stress and her hands shook as she held them out. She wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he didn't seem to be finding it.

"Turn them over, please."

She did and he looked over her palms. They were normal enough, her hands. They might be a little smoother then some peoples but that was a perk of traveling with a supermodel. She got all sorts of free clothes and makeup and all the mani and pedis she wanted.

"Okay, now I need to look at your ears."

Gray dots were dancing at the edges of her vision, "My ears?"

Mr. CSI Warrick Brown came closer and she pulled her arms tight around her.

"I have three in one ear and four in the other. Is that what you want to see?"

He looked at one ear and then he went around behind her and looked at the other ear.

"Okay, I just need to get a hair sample, okay?"

She smoothed her hair down with her hand, "Um, okay."

Jennica thought he was going to cut off a strand of hair so she wasn't braced for the sharp sting of the hair being jerked out of her scalp.

The little pain that was less then the usual amount she went through straitening, styling and primping her own hair broke the dam that had been holding back the tears.

"OH GOD! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING I SWEAR!"

Anything else she wanted to say was lost in tears and chest heaving sobs. She couldn't get her breathe. Oh God she was going to die in a police station!"

In the midst of her panic-attack someone, she wasn't sure who, jerked her chair back and pushed her head between her knees. She tried to take the deep breathes like they were telling her, but the sobs and tears were making it hard.

She would only notice after the panic and tears eased off that Warrick Brown and his chrome CSI case were gone.

* * *

It wasn't so bad, the seat was jus about as comfortable as any seat in a lecture hall. Of course she had never been handcuffed to anything in her life, the cuffs were starting to chaff and her side was hella sore, but all in all things could be worse. Only one bitch had dared come close to her and she had made that ham handed whore pay. She could still taste the cop's blood on her tongue; it didn't taste like pork in the least. After all this blood contact she was going to have to get an HIV test, ick. She didn't like blood when it was coming out of _her _body.

Of course she wouldn't be here at all if she had just been able to run a little bit faster. That though wasn't totally her fault; who the hell would have thought that someone would run down the side of the stairs. It was like something out of a really bad action flick.

This whole thing was turning into a really fucked up movie. It was all spinning completely out of control. Last night had been a mistake, an enjoyable one, but still a mistake. She had left her dress and God only knew what else behind. She hadn't even had time to wipe her prints off of the baseball bat. The others, though, they didn't know jack about those. As far as she knew they all probably thought Alex Dupree did those.

Well maybe not all of them. A woman like Detective Curtis wouldn't run wild through a library just for fun. No, the last time she had spoken to the Detective the other woman had been very serious and sober the whole time. She had been dressed well and had conducted herself with the air of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. Her companion had been the chick who was all over the news. She was like Dupree's girlfriend or fuck buddy or whatever. Sara something or other, that had been her name, Kera was sure of it. Whatever, she was all for girl love and all chick cops, female law enforcement officers she meant, were like at least bi. Besides, the detective and the brunette had been hot.

It was a damn shame that they were on the wrong side of the fight.

Kera shifted uncomfortably, she had been here _forever_. She had watched some show that said that you could only be held for a few hours without being charged for something. She should be able to get out without too many problems and hopefully without a lawyer. She was a college student for Christ's sake, she couldn't afford legal fees and besides, pre-law majors made her gag. Did they always keep two cops in one room? It was a little much, two butch cops with guns for one handcuffed woman. Ah well, maybe she shouldn't have bitten that pervert dyke earlier.

She jerked when the door started to open. Maybe she would finally get to go home, or more accurately to class. She had a test in Women's Literature today and she doubted her anal retentive professor would let her make it up.

The man that came in was around six feet tall, African American and he looked _pissed_. She shifted again, and crossed her legs under the table. An ice cold shudder went down her spine old, but she refused to give into it to her fear. There was more then one way to handle a man.

"Where's Detective Curtis?" She propped her chin in her linked hands and batted her lashes at him.

The man put his metal case on the table she was handcuffed to, "I'm CSI Warrick Brown with the Crime Lab and I'm here to take a DNA sample."

She wanted to flinch away from him but didn't.

"So _where's_ Detective Curtis?"

CSI Brown didn't answer her, he just opened his case.

"Be careful, sir."

The khaki statue at the door finally spoke, and Brown looked at her.

"She took a chunk out of Malone's hand in booking."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her re-crossed her legs underneath the table. "So Warrick Brown, where is Detective Curtis?"

He took an odd looking q-tip out of his bag of tricks.

"Open your mouth please."

Both of the butch cops stiffened up, ready to jump and tie her down like Hannibal Lector. She opened her mouth like a good girl and let the black man swab the inside of her cheek.

She watched him put the plastic cap over the spit covered cotton tip.

"I am also going to need a sample of your hair."

Kera pouted, "So Detective Curtis isn't here?"

He took a pair of long tweezers out of his shiny suitcase, and still didn't answer her.

She hissed when he plucked a few strands of her hair out at the root. It was a little pain, but nothing that mattered.

"What about Sara, do I get to talk to her?"

The CSI went stiff, she'd found his hot button.

"What happened to your ears, Miss Hiene?"

Kera froze, smirk still on her face.

A thin red mist covered her vision and panic jumped up in her throat along with her heart. Her eyes narrowed at the man, Warrick-fucking-Brown, who was standing far too close to her. Her pulse thundered in her temples, her fingertips and deep inside her it trembled in something between fear and hate. She lunged forward and closed the gap, a mere fifteen inches to her left. The sudden movement made the steel handcuffs bite into her skin and the pain that should have been razor sharp was dulled by the adrenaline.

She aimed for his thick brown neck, mouth open. They had tied up her hands but she could still hurt him. Everything was moving so fast, she was moving faster then she ever had. So she was caught completely by surprise when a blinding pain on each side of her head stopped her far short of her goal of ripping out the CSI's fucking throat. Her teeth came together with an audible snap and she let out a guttural sound that she had meant to be a growl. It sounded more like a whimper.

Kera gasped and arched her neck back, trying to break the cop's hold on her. As she fought, she felt the pain that was running up and down her face from jaw to temple was coming from a few strategically placed fingers. Knowing that it was pressure point manipulation didn't lessen the pain. God, the longer it went on the more it hurt. It was like having railroad spikes driven into her head.

The cop bitch held her in place, like a dog, so he could take pictures of her ears and then he left without even saying goodbye or screw you. The cop didn't release her hold, which absolutely had to be outlawed in the Geneva Convention, until he was long gone and the door was shut.

Fucking cops.

Fucking men.

* * *

­After the tears of Jennica Rawlins in room one and the down right creepy vibes and attempted biting in room two Warrick was just about ready to call it a day. Of course he still had another suspect to process and God only what kind of female histrionics and shenanigans he would have to put up with to get Alexandra Dupree's DNA.

Alex Dupree, the epitome of the American ideal of beauty and he was going to swab the inside of her cheek. The world was a screwy place sometimes. Not that he hadn't worked with or on famous people before. Of course they were usually dead, or in a few cases far beyond help, when he met them.

Then there was the entire Sara situation, which he'd already lost patience with. He didn't know exactly what was going on, and wasn't sure he wanted to. That was a whole twisted mess of female trouble and if he had wanted to put up with that he would still be married. On the other hand this was _Sara_. He was still having problems wrapping his mind around everything. Sara and super model, it sounded like it was one of Greg's wet dreams given form and brought to life in high def with surround sound.

He flipped through the file and leaned against the wall beside room three's door. Catherine was convinced that Dupree had done _something_. She couldn't be alone in her beliefs, at least one judge believed her or he wouldn't have the warrant.

It was, Warrick decided, just another suspect and just another day. With that in mind, he opened the door and stepped in. She wasn't what he expected or anything like Catherine described. She was dressed in jeans that might have been blue once and a black tee shirt that had Cartman from _South Park_ splashed across it. Cartman was sitting on a Big Wheel tricycle, wearing a blue police uniform and demanding that everyone respect his authority. Her blonde hair fell strait between her shoulder blades in a loose braid and when she turned to look at him, he saw that she wasn't wearing an ounce of makeup. She didn't look anything like the advertisements or magazine covers but she was still instantly recognizable. It might have been her laser blue eyes or the sarcastic smirk on her face. It could have been either, or neither, but for just a second he was mesmerized.

"Can I help you?" She crossed her arms over her chest, which covered Cartman's face.

Warrick blinked and felt very foolish.

"I'm Warrick Brown from-"

"The Crime Lab, I know." She propped her chin on her fist and returned her attention to whatever space she was staring into before he'd come in.

She was one cool customer.

"All right," Warrick put his case on the table across from her, "I just need to get a DNA sample and some pictures."

She leveled a glare at him, "Because you haven't been able to get a match on my fingerprints, right."

Warrick scowled, she was practically an ice queen. "I have a warrant, Miss Dupree."

She didn't look especially impressed, "I want to see it, please." She held out one perfectly clean and manicured hand, and looked at him expectantly. He handed her the neatly folded warrant and unlike most, she actually read it word for word.

"I see you want the clothes and shoes I wore last night, an oral swab, a hair sample and up to a full body inspection. How the hell did you get a judge to sign off on this? I'm not even officially under arrest." She didn't even give him a chance to answer, "Whatever, everything looks like it's in order." She twisted around in her chair so they were face to face. "The faster your squints clear me, the faster I can get on a plane and get away from this parched fucking wasteland."

Warrick shook his head and took a swab out of his kit. "This will only take a minute." He stepped closer, but paused because the memory of Heine's teeth so close to his throat was too fresh and vivid in his mind.

"I won't bite you, Mister Brown, you're not my type." She opened her mouth wide enough for him to see her tonsils. He actually almost chuckled while he swabbed the inside of her cheek.

"Well fuck me sideways."

Warrick capped the sani-swab, "_Excuse me_?"

Dupree shook her head, "You_ do_ have the most incredible green eyes I've ever seen."

Warrick took out his tweezers and a specimen envelope and cleared his throat, "Um, thank you."

She smiled and crossed her legs, "Sahara. She said a few things about you, and everyone I guess, last night. It was mostly good. She said that you were something like a would-be-brawler with a heart of gold. I don't know about the rest, but your eyes really are nice."

He plucked three curly gold hairs from the loose strands that she had pushed behind her ears, "So you and Sara really-"

She smiled, "For a few memorable years."

He dropped the hair sample into the small evidence bag and sealed it, "And last night?"

Dupree shifted, leaned back in the strait backed chair and balanced on two legs. "And there's that heart of gold. We just talked, CSI Brown. We talked until the sun came up, or we would have if she hadn't have passed out from the drinking."

Now Warrick crossed his own arms, "You got her drunk?"

Dupree chuckled, "Do you know a better way to get tall, dark and brooding to open up and talk about what's going on in that complicated head of hers?"

He had never tried all that hard to get Sara to open up and didn't have anything to say.

She sighed and sank her face into her hands, "Fuck. I haven't seen her since this morning when _that woman_ burst into my suite." She let out a huff of breathe, "You know what, never mind. I didn't mean to sound like the creepy ex-girlfriend who can't let go. I'm just worried about her. She never reacts well to public nudity or near nudity or embarrassment of any kind, period."

Warrick blinked, "Nudity?"

A tint of color actually blossomed over her beautifully cut cheekbones, "You should ask that _fucking blonde bitch_ who slammed in on us this morning, Mr. Brown." She dropped all four chair legs back onto the hard tile. "Or may I call you Warrick?" She shook her head. "There are only a handful of people I've ever trusted Sahara's safety with are either hours and hours away or dead. She trusts you, Warrick, and her judgment is _usually_ very good. Her occasional choice in lovers excluded, of course. She won't need or want to be coddled or humored, but I bet you knew that already. No, Warrick, I think she would love to get a smile from you." She could use it after dealing with _that woman_ this morning."

He looked over her from head to toe as she spoke. There were shadows under her eyes, but that was easily explained away by a long night of drinking and talking. Her nails were pristine and her ears sported small, elegant sapphire studs. She hadn't soullessly slaughtered a teenager last night.

"Catherine, that woman you keep cursing, isn't all that bad."

Dupree snorted, "It's hard to like someone who's been telling the press you're a serial killer and generally making your life miserable. Half of the time I've been here I've been putting it together and the only thing I can come up with is that I'm here to punish Sara somehow."

Warrick locked his samples in his kit and picked it up off the table. The weight was familiar in his hand, even if the uneasiness he felt did not.

"Cath cares about Sara, she just has problems showing it sometimes. They fight allot, but that's how they work best." He started to walk away, "You know what, it doesn't matter. Catherine and Sara are fine, in their own way. When all this blows over, when you're gone, everything will be fine again."

Her voice stopped him as he was going out the door.

"If you want to put your bets on that, you're a damned idiot."

* * *

Warrick walked into the Crime Lab at exactly ten after three o'clock in the afternoon. It took him five minutes to drop his samples off with Whats-His-Face, the days DNA tech and he had two minutes of decompression time. He was halfway to the break room for his first cup of coffee when he saw Nick in one of the layout rooms looking as grim as he felt. He didn't want to, but felt like it was his duty as a coworker and a friend.

He leaned against the doorway, "Do I even want to know?"

Nick looked up, his eyes red from fatigue and aggravation and his jaw heavy with stubble.

"Yeah, it's a slam dunk."

Warrick looked over the neatly laid out photographs and the many tagged-and-bagged items. It was like Santa Claus had come early and handed them their case all wrapped up in a pretty red bow.

Warrick knew what was coming, "But-"

Nick sighed and leaned against the table, "Cath is not going to be happy."

Warrick leaned against the wall and rubbed his fingers over his eyes in fast, frustrated circles. "Nobody is going to be happy when this is all said and done. We followed the evidence, stuck to procedure and did everything in our power to make things go smoothly."

"Some job we did this time." Nick half-heartedly chuckled, "I don't want to be the one who tells Catherine she's wrong on this."

Neither did Warrick. "We don't have to, it's the evidence, man."

* Buitres is vultures in Spanish.


	50. Chapter XLIX: Who Called The Calvary?

Author's Note: This chapter, while far shorter, is also not beta-read.

_Chapter XLIX_

_Who Called The Calvary?_

She was wearing about two to three months salary, and that was being conservative. All her clothes, down to her socks and thank god fresh underwear, had been chosen and bought for her by Alex. Her ex-girlfriend had purchased top designers and had her personal assistant deliver them to her in a luxury suite. Both of the other women were currently sitting in County lock-up. It had been something she had let Alex do when they'd been together. The other woman had genuinely enjoyed dressing her. Truth be known she had probably enjoyed it as much as she had _un_dressing her. Not that they had done anything, of course. No one would believe her if she said so and she had. She didn't blame them, it had looked bad. Bad? Who was she kidding, it had been awful, horrible, there were barely even words that fully described the jumbled turmoil of emotions rushing through her.

Sara eased the SUV to a stop at a red light and shook another unfiltered Camel out of the pack she had bought at the first place she'd seen after leaving the hotel. She had kicked her pack and a half a day habit when she'd come to Vegas and now that, too, was back with a vengeance. She'd _only_ gone through half a dozen and her nerves had already settled down enough to make thinking tolerable. In the long run she knew she was going to have to quit again, but right now smoking was just about the only thing keeping her from driving off into the sunset.

She drove on auto-pilot and barely noticed anything outside of traffic that came close enough to be an immediate danger. She drove and smoked and tried to figure out how she was going to look Jim Brass in the eye. The drive was far too short to get enough thinking done and even if she had been able to come up with something it would have flown out of her head when she saw the mob of reporters. She desperately wanted to turn around and go home. Of course there were probably a few reporters there too. Thank God for tinted windows.

Much like she had the day before at the lab, she drove around to the back of the building. She thought it would be better behind the fence, behind the solid blue wall. She thought it would be better when she was surrounded by police personnel instead of the gaggle of reporters. The silence was just as bad as the questions, maybe worse. Everyone gave her a _wide_ berth. It was junior high all over again except this time she was the woman who was sleeping with the murder suspect instead of the girl whose mother killed her father.

There was three feet of space all around her that no one would violate. She walked through the back rooms, through central booking and processing, and around the locker room without a single person meeting her eyes.

"Sidle."

She had made it halfway to Jim's office without anyone speaking to her. She was almost glad for the lack of conversation. She turned around anyway, because she knew exactly who was there. She also knew better then to hope that they would go away. She clasped behind her back to make sure she wouldn't throw any punches, "Tristan, Harv, and how are you doing this afternoon?" Alex's manager and lawyer were there for Alex, obviously. At the moment, though they were just two more problems for her to deal with. "Have you spoken to the DA yet?"

Andros straitened his jacket lapels, "Oh yes, we've had a few words. He was _very_ helpful. So much so I had to clear my schedule for the next _week and a half_ to stay here and straiten out this disaster."

Sara stiffened and tried to keep a firm grip on her temper, "Oh, I'm so sorry you had to do your job,"

Harvey, forever the peacemaker, cleared his throut, "Things could be going better, Sara. How are you holding up?"

She half smiled at Harvey and _almost_ got a word out.

"She's obviously making the best out of a bad situation, Harv. You don't stay in the luxury suite and wear Oscar de la Renta, Valentino, Prada and Channel on a _cop's_ salary."

She rolled her eyes, grit her teeth, and wished she had a cigarette, "Nice, Andros, any other cheap shots you'd like to get in before I go?"

The perfectly groomed man almost smiled, almost. "Oh, I don't know, do you have anything to say about _tanking_ Alex's career or landing her and Jennica in _lockup_ or should we just stick to you fucking _everything_ that moves and practically selling the footage to _Entertainment Tonight_?"

Sara cocked a brow, "Really, that's all you can come up with? You're losing your touch." She wanted to do a DNA test, there was no way he wasn't somehow realated to Catheirne Willows.

"The only thing I'm losing is my patience."

Harvey stepped between them, "We don't have time for a pissing contest here. We need to figure out how we are going to extricate Alex and Jennica without getting Sara into further trouble."

"She _is _trouble." Andros was as close to growling as Sara had ever heard a person come, and that was saying something.

"I hate to breakup the _love fest_ here."

Harvey turned, Andros pivoted on his low heel and Sara whipped around in the direction of the new voice.

Sara wasn't sure what the other two expected, but she was frankly confused. The two women looked vaguely familiar but she didn't know either of them. She knew almost every cop, CSI, lawyer, and judge in Vegas at least by sight. Despite the comings and goings, rookies and retirees, a new face generally merited a second and third look. In the middle of a case like this new faces were never a good sign. She didn't need this now.

The woman on her left was dressed in a dove gray suit, not as expensive as what Alex had provided her with, but well cut to her form. She had long brown hair, sharp eyes and looked very familiar. For a minute, Sara had been fooled, but caught herself before uttering her name. The resemblance was uncanny, but Lindsey Boxer had never worn a suit and heels for more then half an hour without complaining. No, this woman wasn't a cop. A lawyer, maybe, but not a cop.

The other woman, the one who had spoke, was a blonde and she meant business. Sara didn't have to see the gun or badge to read her as a cop. She had the stance, the stony face and those damn aviator sun glasses that every cop seemed to have and only a few could wear without looking ridiculous.

"I'm Abbie Carmichael with the Department of Justice," the brunette had a familiar and unmistakable twangy accent. "And this," the brunette continued, "is Mary Shannon from the Marshall Service. We need to talk to someone about Alexandra Dupree."

To say the bottom of Sara's stomach dropped out was a gross understatement. This was quite possibly one of the worst things that could have happened. Then she turned her head and saw Conrad Ecklie, ADA Ritchen, and Under Sheriff Jeffery McKeen staring down the hall at them.

It was official, her day _could not_ get any worse. It was scientifically impossible.

The following cacophony was a deafening mix voices, each trying to make their own point, loudly. Sara was caught in the middle of the spectacle, trying to hear everyone and failing all around. The Marshall and Federal Prosecutor were arguing jurisdiction with Ritchen, McKeen and Harvey Everett. Meanwhile both Ecklie and Andros were demanding explanations from her and each other. All the while the hallway filled with spectators who took it all in. The situation might have spun completely out of control but for Jim Brass. The Homicide Capitan waded in like a pro, bringing the rabble under control with only a few words and one shrill whistle.

"Hey! What's going on here?" Brass looked at each of them and Sara wanted to squirm under his scrutiny.

"Jim, I-"She had no explanation to offer, her words withered on her tongue and she found that she wasn't able to look directly at him.

That was okay because everyone else had plenty to say and her half sentence and all of Brass's attention was quickly overtaken by half a dozen other voices.

Obviously disgusted with the chaos, Jim held up both of his hands like a referee at a game. He caught everyone's attention and they gradually quieted down.

"Undersherrif?"

Jim was a stickler for procedure, and he looked towards the highest ranked officer in the room. In Sara's opinion, McKeen was feeding the fire more then he was trying to put it out.

McKeen postured for a moment, "Jim, let's take this to your office as it's closest."

Brass nodded, "And those two?"

McKeen rubbed the back of his neck in a rare display of discomfort, "Feds."

Brass turned without another word and headed towards his office, followed by McKeen, the two federal women and Ecklie. For the barest part of a second, Sara thought she might be off the hook. Then Ecklie, after a few words with the Undersherrif, turned back to her. She prepared herself for the worst, unemployment here she came.

"Let's take a walk, Sidle." She fell in step with her boss and waited for the pink slip to appear.

"Have you talked to your Union representative or a lawyer yet?"

She almost tripped over her own feet, "What?"

Ecklie sighed, "The PD could recommend an attorney, but I suggest you get your own."

She fell silent, too shocked to speak.

"It's going to take a miracle to sort everything out. You're really in for it this time; I won't be able to keep it in-house. Your job is on the line here. You should have come to _me_ or Brass or anyone before calling in the Feds, Sara."

Sara stopped in her tracks and turned to look at Ecklie face-to-face. "But I didn't call the Feds, I thought the DA or Alex's people did. I _just_ got here

"Right now," Ecklie sighed, "I highly recommend you should go along with whatever the Undersherriff wants you to do." He turned to head back to Jim's office and the pow-wow there, "And go see what, if anything you can do over in interrogation. We have three women over there and you know two of them."

Apparently, her day could get worse and it was only three o'clock in the afternoon.

"Wait, what, three people? We have three suspects?"

Ecklie threw his hands up and out in disgust as he walked away, "_Three_."

Disclaimer: Abbie Carmichael from Law and Order belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC. Mary Shannon from In Plain Sight belongs to it's creators and USA. Lindsey Boxer belongs to James Patterson and ABC. Please note I am none of the above and I do not make any money doing this.


	51. Chapter L: Questions

Author's Note: This chapter is not beta-read, so there are probably plenty of errors. I'm going to blame *spins wheel* global warming and be done with it. A couple of comments before the chapter:

schdiw - Where is Grissom? My first answer was with his bugs. My second, more serious, answer is that we will see him later.

Gringo - I have had more alcohol related comments on this story then on any other. As for the tecuila, it was all Alex's idea.

Now on to the interogation.

_Chapter L_

_Questions_

The chaos of what was going on around her, around the case_, _fell away when she stepped into the interrogation room. There was only her and Kera Heine, cop and murderer.

"I heard you were asking for me, Kera. Have something you'd want to talk about?" She slid a yellow legal pad and a dull pencil across the table. "Something you'd like to confess, maybe?"

Sofia sat across from the suspected serial killer and rested her chin on her hand, completely non-chalant, calm and cool as a cucumber. She had caught a little bit of sleep, not enough to be fully recharged, but enough to function. She had taken a shower, changed her clothes and Sofia felt almost human. That was more then she could say for the woman sitting across from her.

"I still don't know why I'm here. I mean you chased me and arrested me over a couple of unpaid parking tickets or jaywalking or what? The march last month did someone tell you I faked the permit?"

Sofia didn't break eye contact and didn't crack a smile, "I don't jog for anything less then armed robbery, that tell you anything?"

Kera sighed and clanked the handcuffs around her wrists, "There must be _allot _of armed robberies in Vegas."

"Cute, that's cute." Sofia shook her head, the girl thought she was clever. Why Jim had decided that _she_ should interrogate Heine was beyond her. They didn't need a confession; the evidence was overwhelmingly against her. If Kera knew that she wouldn't look so relaxed and the smirk on her face would be long gone. She was either stupid or deluded, either way she was guilty. If she could get a confession, which Sofia doubted, it would let the case die a quick and quiet death. There would be no long, drawn out, dramatic trial, just a lifetime in prison, a women's prison.

"So you're trying to tell me you don't know _anything _about the murders I'm investigating."

Kera shrugged as much as a handcuffed person could, "I only know what I've seen on the news."

Sofia tapped the folder she'd brought with her on the table. "Then why did you run?"

It was a simple question, one she was sure that Kera had concocted an answer for.

Sam had told her that one of the CSIs had taken DNA samples. Wendy was going to text her as soon as the tests gave them something to go on. Wendy knew the gravity of the situation, and Sofia knew she could rely on the brunette tech. Stepping out of the lab and seeing the gore had made the lab rat all the more determined to help close the case. Even if the DNA would take all day and part of the night, if they were lucky, a basic type comparison would be much faster.

Sofia doubted they would need the DNA, though. Nick had secured a warrant and he had gone to the woman's apartment. She'd only seen _some_ of the goodies that had come from that.

Kera twitched her shimmery pink lips, "I don't know about you, Sweetie, but when someone with a gun chases me, _I run_."

Sofia leafed through the folders content aimlessly, "You couldn't see my gun, try again, _Sweetie._"

Kera's half smile twisted into a scowl, "I know you had one, though, I'm not _stupid_."

She was getting defensive over practically nothing. Every interrogation was different and while some suspects would be bowled over by the full court press right about now, Sofia knew that Kera needed some more softening up.

"I didn't say you were stupid, it just seems a little presumptuous. I could have been there to check out a book. It is a library after all. It wasn't like I kicked the door in and had SWAT swarm in, guns out." She pushed her damp ponytail over her shoulder and laid the folder on the table, folded her hands on top of it. "No, I don't think you ran because you're stupid. You ran because you're guilty."

Kera tilted her head to the side, almost ninety degrees, "This is nuts. I'm here because I ran away? Maybe I have a crap-load of unpaid parking tickets or I fudged on my financial aid forms, it doesn't mean I _killed_ somebody."

Sofia held up three fingers, "Three. You're here because you killed three men." She opened the folder and laid out the Polaroid pictures in a neat row, chronologically from left to right. The morgue photos of the victims were facing their killer, it was disturbingly ironic. Dedrick Marsh, Preston Abernathy and on the far right was the fresh from the slab picture of Adam Roggen. She tapped her finger against the dead boy's image. "Adam was only in high school, you know. He was just a kid; he wasn't even old enough to cut himself shaving yet."

Kera didn't even blink. "I've never seen him before." Her voice was cold, like ice, and it raised goose bumps on Sofia's arms under her jacket sleeves. She was getting cocky; it was time for the gloves to come off.

"Really? So how do you explain your fingerprints on the bloody baseball bat that he was beaten to death with?"

This was_ the_ moment. There was always a moment where a murderer realized that he, or in this case she, was caught. The tone of the rest of the interrogation, and the entire case, would be decided by whatever Kera Hiene said next.

"What? I don't understand."

Sofia wasn't particularly surprised, she had seen plenty of killers play dumb.

"Your fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. We also matched them to prints found at our other two scenes. Fingerprints, hair samples, blood: you name it, we have it and it's all going to come back to you."

Kera tilted her head to the side, "How many rape cases have you worked, Detective Curtis?"

It was a complete and utter change of subject, but it wasn't completely unexpected.

"Plenty." It was going to be tough, but Sofia was an expert at these sorts of games.

"Do you solve the national average of twenty percent or do you even try?"

Sofia leaned back in her chair, smirk on her face, "I think a better question, Miss Hiene, is something more in the area of why did you kill three men. Do you have a statistic for that?"

* * *

"She's good," Federal Marshall Mary Shannon watched the interrogation with narrowed eyes.

"I've seen better." Federal Prosecutor Abbie Carmichael didn't seem especially impressed.

Soon-to-be-fired Clark County CSI Sara Sidle didn't particularly care what they thought.

"You always say that. Like lawyers are _so _much better at interrogating peps then Agents and LEOs."

Carmichael didn't even look away from the interrogation playing out in front of them, "I've worked with my fair share of LEOs and I've seen several miracles cases in situations just like this."

"Between Detective Curtis and Capitan Brass _we will_ wrap this case up."

Undersheriff McKeen was unabashedly confident.

Sara just wanted it all to be over.

Abbie Carmichael, who bore a disturbing resemblance to an old friend, leaned closer to her. "She _is_ very good, you know." Sara only shrugged, but that didn't stop the lawyer. "Which makes me wonder why she had Nicky Stokes call me up at a God-awful hour to take over this case." Carmichael's voice was barely a whisper but it impacted Sara's brain like a sledge hammer. No one else seemed to notice.

"She's a good cop," Sara's voice was just as quiet but that was from a suddenly tight throat, not attempts at subterfuge.

She looked across the observation room where the window that looked into the other interrogation room. Brass and Alex were situated in the other room and Sara smiled a little bit, "She learned from the best."

* * *

Jim Brass ran his hand over his forehead to fend off the headache that was brewing behind his eyes. He didn't bother to watch Dupree pace the room. He had dealt with his share of pissed women and had learned enough to know when to let one pace. A man didn't go through a marriage, successful or not, without picking up a few tricks. He wasn't sure about lesbians, but strait women wanted a reaction. Back when things had been at their worst he had been able to accurately countdown his ex-wife's reactions.

"You brought me all the way down here, aren't you going to ask me any fucking questions?! Make with the interrogation already!" Dupree jerked the chair back and sat in it for the first time since he'd come in, "Say something!"

That hadn't taken all that long, of course the woman had been stewing for several hours.

He leaned his cheek against his fingertips and propped his elbow on the table to support his head's weight, "Well now that we're all sitting down like civilized people-" Jim pushed a blank yellow legal pad and a pen across the table, "What I need you to do is write down everything you know about this little cult you're in. Take Action Now, right?"

Dupree slapped her hands on the table and the uniform at the door moved like greased lightning to intercept her. Jim flicked the fingers of his free hand to warn him off. He knew that Kera Hiene, and not Alexandra Dupree, was the murderer. Dupree didn't need to know that, though.

"It's not a cult. _I am not in a damn cult_."

Jim quirked his lips, "You could have fooled me, lady. I've seen cults and I say this meets all the standards, including making me _sick_." He spit the last word out like a rotten piece of meat and meant it. "It might be the fact that you're telling little girls that all men are evil rapists. Now I'm all for free speech and self protection, but hacking off men's penises? That's just wrong."

"I have never-what the fuc-I told you people I have never seen or heard of any of this bullshit before! Whoever did that is fucking _sick_."

"If your followers are sick, then you must be the disease."

Dupree's eyes went shades past sapphire, they were an unfathomable hue of blue. Red raced up her neck and cheeks and her golden brows lowered menacingly. "I help those girls."

"Help them become brainwashed freaks, you mean."

"TAN is not a cult, God damn it! We don't have a compound, we're not preaching the end of the world, we're not forcing cyanide down their throats-"

Her words died suddenly, without even a whimper and her eyes darted to the glass. She could only see herself, but they both knew what was going on behind the reflective surface.

"Sahara."

Compared to her enraged screams of just moments before, her quiet words were barely audile.

"Hey hey hey hey!" He stood up, "You're talking to me. You look at me. Now you've got one shot here. If you want to help Sara you'll tell me _everything_ now."


	52. Chapter LI: Answers

_Chapter LI_

_Answers_

Sofia crossed her legs underneath the table and waited, she could have set her watch by the other woman's reaction.

"This is _stupid_. I thought that super model was the murderer. This is really just stupid; shouldn't I have a lawyer or something?"

Sofia kept her face impassive, "That's your right, Miss Heine."

She had to get something out of this woman before an attorney could shut her up. She had come too far and worked too hard for some pencil-necked public-defender with delusions of grandeur to cock-block her now.

"Of course, I was hoping to keep all of this just between us girls."

Hiene smiled, "Girl talk: shoes, hair, clothes and all that, Detective Curtis? You don't look like the type."

Sofia smoothed down her ponytail and tried to hide her smirk. They were in an interrogation, not high school. It was true, she didn't look her best, but she was hardly sloppy. Her jeans, tee-shirt and tailored gray jacket looked far better then Hiene's retina-scalding orange jumpsuit.

"Oh I don't know about that. This is Las Vegas after all and some nights I do like to go out on the town." She pulled a picture out of her folder and put it face down. The white stood out starkly against the gray reflective surface of the table. "I absolutely love getting dressed up and going out. I have this gorgeous red dress that looks spectacular on me if I don't say so myself. There are black dress nights and tight pants nights but red dress night, they're the wildest. Don't you agree, Kera?"

Sofia flipped the photo over with a snap of her wrist, "I guess you _do_ agree."

If she was startled, it didn't show. "It's a dress."

Sofia smirked, "You're very astute. It's not just any dress, though, it's your dress that we recovered from the room we found Adam's mutilated, bloody body in."

She had seen it laying on the floor by the bed in the garage apartment's bedroom turned horror movie scene. "Mine's longer and not covered with blood."

"You can't prove that's mine."

Sofia chuckled, "Even if your DNA wasn't all over it, and trust me it is, I can prove it's yours." She opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "The Rebel Gazette covered UNLV's Gay-Strait Alliance Red Walk for AIDS where you presented a plaque to someone." She laid out the picture, "And you're wearing a red dress, this-"She tapped her finger on the evidence photo, "red dress."

"I-"

Sofia had the girl on the ropes, now it was time for the interrogation to _really_ begin.

"Nothing to say for yourself, Kera?"

The dark haired woman blinked, "But I helped you! When you came and asked, I answered everything! Why would I help you if I did it?"

Sofia smiled, "I don't know, you tell me."

"I didn't, I wouldn't!" Her eyes darted all around the room, looking for some kind of escape. She was looking everywhere but at her interogator. That was a mistake.

Sofia put her hand into her shallow jacket pocket and brought out the clear plastic evidence bag she had put in there before she'd stepped into the room. It was a heavier then any one necklace should have been. She tossed it onto the table almost carelessly. The gold of the chain and the various rings glinted in the fluorescent light. "They took this off of your neck when they booked you. You were wearing _this_ necklace when I chased after you."

Because Sofia knew that it had already been photographed, swabbed and dusted for prints, she broke the seal and took the necklace out.

"This-"She held one ring between her thumb and forefinger "is Dedrick Marsh's Wrestling Championship ring. He was one of the best wrestlers Nevada has ever seen. His high school coach swore that he'd win a gold medal one day." She twisted her fingers around and held up a simple wedding band, "And this is Preston Abernathy's wedding band. He and his wife Kim picked these out together on a trip to Atlanta. He has a son named Jonah; he's only two and a half years old." Sofia's hands moved to the last ring, "This one was Adam's. It came to him from his grandfather. His family gave it to him at his barmitzpha, that was only a few years ago."

"I don't now what any of this has to do with me. I collect rings from all over the place. I'm a little clepto like that" The young woman laced her fingers together, unlaced them, tapped them and then folded them together again. She was nervous. "I can tell you where I bought these from if you like. There's this guy who hocks stuff on the corner by Hooper Hall."

"Do you collect other things, Kera? Does your kleptomania spill over into other things? Are you a big fan of coins, shot glasses, action figures or maybe-"

Sofia pulled another picture out of the folder, and smirked a little. "Maybe you like candle holders." She put the photo of the ugly candle holder taken from the hotel room where Preston Abernathy had been murdered. The photograph had been taken while Nick had been using an ALS unit so the blood stains were glowing bright and unmistakable.

"We found this in your apartment, Miss Heine. You might have cleaned the surface, but the blood is still there under the surface, just waiting to be found."

Sofia laid that down beside the other pictures so Kera could see the mountain of evidence stacking up against her.

"I've been on this case from the beginning, when we found your friend Erica dead at a construction site. You were closer to Erica then you let on. We looked at her phone records. She called you more then her own mother."

Sofia watched Kera's face. The girl looked down at her hands. "Erica was a good person, she didn't deserve to be _raped_."

"And murdered," Sofia added softly. She didn't hesitate, she pulled out the morgue photo of Erica Green. Sofia had been there and didn't need to see the image to know what it showed. The young woman had been still, pale and though the sheet had been pulled up to her collar bones it was obvious that she had been autopsied. The black stitches that had closed the y-incsion stood out starkly against waxy flesh. It was somewhat disturbing and Sofia knew it.

"Stewart Finnegan strangled her because he was trying to get away. He died of massive trauma and blood loss."

"I don't see what this has to do with me. "

Sofia took the last photo out of her folder and laid it right in front of Kera's restrained hands. "I think you do, Kera, seeing as it's your M.O." The picture was a standard frame of a bright pink vibrator complete with standard ruler and a case number. The outer shell of the device was different, but it was exactly the same sort of weapon. The fact that there was more then one device in the world was a very creepy thought.

"The first time I saw one of these, Erica's I mean, I didn't think much of it. It's a little vanilla, if you ask me. The inside of it, though, is the important part. It's the sort of torture that would give the Marquis de Sade pause."

Sofia shook her head, "You made these together, you and Erica and decided to what, go looking for rapists?" It was the sort of thing that Hollywood would concoct. College students with vigilante complexes. Only in Hollywood they might have gotten away with it. "And after she died, you knew exactly what to do. The paper had been running articles and editorials about Dedrick Marsh for months all you had to do was find, drug and seduce him then _your little friend_ would do the rest."

She had backed a serial killer into a corner, and now the other woman's fight or flight instincts were taking over. All Sofia had to do was watch and see which reaction would win out.

"At least _I'm _standing up and doing something."

"Yeah, you're killing innocent men."

"They weren't innocent!"

The exchange was emotionally charged and fast. She could feel her pulse racing. This whole thing was getting to her, but she wouldn't back down now. Sofia leaned forward, "What could they have possibly done to you?"

"They touched me!"

"Really?"

Of course they had, she had invited them to. Sofia knew this was going to happen. Heine was victimizing herself. She wasn't impressed or convinced.

"Yes!"

She wasn't convinced, but as God as her witness, she would swear that Heine was. The girl was either a stunning actress or severely brainwashed. Sofia would prefer the former and seriously doubted the later, no matter what Catherine said.

"And Mother says, Mother always says that men are-"

Kera had a manic gleam in her eye and Sofia knew it was time for the final push.

"Mother? That can't be your mom, you know the one you never call, because _I_ talked to her and she's in complete and utter denial."

"My mom is a fool."

"Let me guess she told you that girls who go to bars wearing dresses like _that_ are asking for it."

"Is that what you think, Detective Curtis?"

The other woman's voice was little more then a hiss, and the uniforms edged closer.

"What I think doesn't matter. It's all going to be up to a jury of your peers now and trust me, they're not going to fall for the insanity plea, Kera. Insane people don't drug their victims and clean up after themselves." The validity of that statement was questionable, but Sofia didn't let that show on her face.

"SHE _IS_ REAL! I am _NOT CRAZY_!"

"Really because someone who shoves razors up her vay-jay-jay doesn't really come across as the picture of mental health. I've dealt with some crazies, and you're definitely a couple of tacos short of a combination plate, Lady."

Most people wouldn't want to antagonize a murderer and Sofia knew the dangers better then the Tom, Dick and Harrys on the street. She was hedging her bets on a few simple assumptions. Assumption number one was that Kera had yet to hurt a female, outside of the unfortunate officer who'd done the cavity search. Not that she was especially worried as the girl was chained to the table, but still. Assumption number two was that Kera Hiene was, at her core, a self centered narcissist. She might be easily lead, but she was still a narcissist. Narcissists always had to be right, and would go to any length to make others believe that too. If there was some kind of puppet master cult leader, and she still wasn't positive there was, the girl would out her. She would give a name just to prove herself right.

"I am not crazy, Detective Curtis, I've met her, and so have you. You and your friend Sara Sidle."

She had known that this was possible, Catherine had been talking about it almost nonstop. It could be a red herring, but Sofia doubted that would stop anyone. The Marshall and Prosecutor wouldn't look kindly on their charge now. She was about to pull Alexandra Dupree into the conversation.

"I saw you at the library."

Well of course she had. That was how they had ended up here, after all, but Dupree had an iron-clad alabi for that morning.

"And then you showed up at school."

Sofia blinked and suddenly realized that the woman wasn't talking about their romp through the university library at all. The timeline was off, and the only other library she'd been to in years was-

"You were at the SNNOW meeting."

The raven haired murderess rolled her eyes, "Duh. I watched you and _Sa-ra_-"

She said Sara's name, in a sing-song way that reminded Sofia of another psycho. It sounded far too much like Natalie Davis, and that made her sick to her stomach.

"-talking to everyone_, including_ Mother."

Sofia quickly ran through the names and faces from that Sunday. Only one person had made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.

"Professor Blake is a genius. She started T.A.N. to teach us all the things our own moms were too cowardly to."

Sofia's only physical reaction was to blink again, on the inside she felt sick because she knew exactly who was watching and could only guess what Sara was feeling.

* * *

"I'm waiting Miss Dupree."

The supermodel looked up, "This is serious, isn't it? I mean this absolutely serious."

Jim Brass folded his hands on top of the table, "Yes, I'd say this is very serious."

If she had taken notice of his sarcastic words, she didn't bother to react. He might have said something else, but decided to wait it out because she looked about a million miles away and on the verge of saying something.

"Nobody takes me seriously. I'm just the airhead model. I look pretty therefore I must be stupid. Not that I protested that too much. So when I was approached about becoming TAN's spokeswoman I was thrilled. Too thrilled maybe. It looked good, sounded even better, hell I fell for it hook line and fucking sinker. It was a cause I could really sink my teeth into. Some girls do PETA and some girls do Unicef. I was going to be the face of rape prevention. I wanted to help people, women. I'm not a cop or a CSI or a counselor but I could help this way. I wanted to help and needed a distraction. I guess, in retrospect, that bitch just wanted a pretty face to sell her group and a fucking idiot to take the fall."

Jim raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch, "Aint it the truth? Now about this evil horrible witch who lead you astray, what's her name?"

She only shrugged. "I trusted her, implicitly. I'd met her years before on vacation, with Sara. She actually introduced us so it never occurred to me that-"The blonde shook her head and floated off into some untold space.

He cleared his throat to draw her attention back, "Her name, Miss Dupree."

She sighed the sort of sigh that generally only came from recent divorcees and resigned victims and Dupree was neither. "I still can't believe it. I thought- God. Fuck her. Fucking fuck her."

Jim actually smiled a little, watched and waited.

"Don't Universities fucking check these people out? I mean Jesus H Christ, she's a professor. A fucking Harvard professor."

She threw up her hands.

"Fuck it and fuck her. Blake, Victoria Blake, she's on the tour. I helped fucking pay her way around the country. Hell. She is-was Sara's fucking hero. How was I supposed to know? How was any of us supposed to know that-"

* * *

If either Sofia Curtis or Alexandra Dupree looked towards the mirrored glass they would have only seen their own reflections. That didn't stop either of them from doing so. The thing, or rather person, they were looking for didn't notice, though. Sara Sidle had barreled out of the room at full speed with one hand clasped over her mouth.

When Alex and Kera started writing out their statements, Sara burst through a door that she knew lead to the bathrooms. While Sofia and Jim were watching their respective charges, Sara emptied her stomach contents into the first porcelain vessel her one outreached hand touched.

It was not pretty, nor graceful, throwing up was one of the vilest, most disgusting things a human could do and still live. If one took in the slightly abused state of Sara's stomach and esophagus, it was also one of the most painful things that she had dealt with in quite a while. Later, when her head was clearing, she would equate it to chucking up shards of glass that had been dipped in acid and set on fire.

When it stopped, she leaned against the wall, barely able to stand. It only took a second or so for the images to start flickering to life in her mind's eye.

That triggered a second wave of muscle spasms and heaving. The bile was bitter and acidic and she kept gagging until all she had left were dry heaves. Her eyes had watered up to the point where she was all but blind and her bones had chipped away like fragile wax.

"Jesus, Sidle, are you okay?"

She swiped her highly expensive sleeve over her stinging eyes and running nose and got a look at who was talking to her.

Of all the bathrooms at the LVPD, she had run into this one, which happened to have the last person in all of Vegas she had wanted to see. She didn't know which was more humiliating: The fact that she had thrown up in and all over a urinal or the fact that Conrad Ecklie had watched her do so.

"I've been better." Her voice was gravelly low and she sounded like she had been smoking for all of her thirty-some years instead of just today.

She would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but the intense burning in her chest and the soreness in her sides made it too painful.

This entire nightmare was too painful and yet, just as she always did, she had to pull herself up and keep going.

"I better call maintenance." She walked, staggered a bit, to the door.

Sara let the swinging door slam behind her without looking back.

Had she looked back, she would have seen a strange sight.

Conrad Ecklie was standing there, stock still, looking down at the urinal she had vomited into. As a crime scene investigator, even one who had spent years in administration, he had seen countless puddles of puke. They were never particularly pretty and he did not enjoy being present for the act. Instead of walking away, or even waiting for maitnence, he stood there and looked.

Some, including Sidle, would accuse him of being self-serving. Sidle, especially, would say that he was less then observant. No one would say that now because Conrad Ecklie was looking down at a puddle of Sara Sidle's blood-speckled vomit with a look of deep concern on his face.

Author's Note: If there are any mistakes in this chapter it's because my beta has dissapeared on me. I've done my best to correct the worst of it, but I'm not perfect. I know, I'm shocked too. Happy Holidays to everyone and here's hoping someone puts some reviews in my inbox for Christmas!


	53. Chapter LII: Adrenaline Crash

_Chapter LII_

_Adrenaline Crash_

"Suspect is around five-seven, one hundred and twenty pounds. She has blonde hair, and is in her fifties." She glanced at Jim and he nodded slightly. "Suspect should be considered armed and dangerous."

She was releasing the hounds on a college professor for God's sake.

She put the mic on it's hook beside the radio that had been bolted under the car's dash. She had been there, Sofia berated herself. She had spoken to the woman, and _nothing_. She as a cop and had been standing with a criminal and she hadn't even realized it.

Hindsight, of course, was 20-20. Looking at it now, Blake had set it up perfectly. She had pulled everyone's strings and they had all danced like merry marionettes. Blake had been an ethics professor, but she also held various degrees in psychology, sociology and women's studies. It was a perfect storm of ability and evil all wrapped up in a nice normal package.

She had raped and mutilated men all over the country and had used the lecture tour to cover herself. God only knew how long she'd been doing it. She had even lead two disciples, if one wanted to call Kera and the unfortunate Erica Green that, to commit murder. Then on top of that, she had given them a believable patsy on a silver platter and a juicy scandal in one single woman.

Oh yes, Alexandra Dupree had been a character in Blake's grand theatre production just they all had been. They, Sara and herself, had unwittingly started the entire chain reaction on a clear Sunday morning after eating a couple of burritos. She wanted to say that they had somehow made a mistake. Had they gone against procedure? No, of course they hadn't. She and Sara weren't on the take, they weren't dirty. There had been no reason to think that some intellectuals at a library could possibly be connected to a murder that had been effectively closed. How could anyone have known? She couldn't help but think she should have.

"Stop that."

She turned her head sharply, and Jim Brass shrugged, "You couldn't possibly have known."

He wasn't psychic. Brass was a cop, a good one, and he could read people very well. That didn't make her feel any better. She thumped her fist against the passenger window. "I talked to her, Jim. I stood right there and talked to her. I showed her a picture of her own sick device."

Jim slowed the car to a stop at an intersection, "We all got the wool pulled over our eyes on this one." He sounded calm, like a professional. She was a professional, but at the moment she sounded like a whiney fourteen-year old.

"It the last's not the first time, and it's not the last, probably not even this month."

Sofia stared out the window at tourists, casinos and hotels passing by. He was right, which only made her feel more foolish. "Probably not."

"You can't take it personally, Sofie. There will be other cases and other killers and I need to know you've got you head level again."

Sofia blew out a breathe, "I'm fine, more or less."

They, followed by several black and whites, turned into the Paris's main drive.

He killed the engine and looked over at her, "That's good, more or less."

She got out of the car and looked over her shoulder at the uniforms behind her. Everyone, including herself and Jim, were wearing their Kevlar.

The entire lecture tour had been staying at the hotel with Alexandra Dupree. Of course the other guests were housed in far less expensive rooms. Victoria Blake was registered in a single room on the twenty-third floor.

Vega and O'Riley were covering McKarren and they had sent the information along to the State Police. The Feds were supposed to be circulating her picture around.

"Half of you are with me in the elevator, the other half go with Detective Curtis to cover the stairs."

Jogging up some twenty-odd flights of stairs with a gun in her hand put Sofia in an odd headspace. She didn't know about other cops, but for her it was hard to describe. The calm before the storm, she supposed it was the quiet buildup to action. The only sounds were the rhythmic footfalls of five people going up stairs and their huffing and puffing breathes.

She and her team hit the twenty-third floor and cleared the hallways quickly and efficiently, just as she knew Jim was doing from the elevator. Room 2341 didn't look especially menacing or at all different, but you could never judge a book by it's cover or a room by it's door.

Her pulse picked up and she could feel it beating in her temples, in her fingers, throbbing in her chest like a bass drum. Jim didn't speak, but his eyes were stone-cold serious and his hand signals very clear. She took her position behind him as his immediate cover. Jim dropped the key-card into the slot, the door was ready to be opened.

"LVPD!" Jim pushed the door open and she followed him closely, checking her left and right with motions that her muscles knew well. She checked beside the bed and one of the uniforms followed Jim to check the bathroom.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Sofia unclipped the radio from her belt, "Dispatch, we are Code Four."

She holstered her Glock and looked around. Her eyes darted around the room and she took everything in. The bed was unmade, room service tray was still on the cart by the small table. The breakfast plate only had a few crumbs and smears of maple syrup on it. The morning edition of _The Sun_ was sitting beside the tray, open to the second and third pages where the Roggen boys looked up at her, forever frozen in time in their respective pictures.

Blake had left, quickly, probably right after reading about the new murder. She had hours on them and could have gone anywhere. Wherever she had gone, she was traveling light. There were three matching suitcases, but no toiletry bag, carry-on bag or purse. Sofia looked at the three bags one at a time and focused on the one sitting on her far left. It was open. Sofia looked, without touching. She wouldn't dare contaminate possible evidence by touching it with her bare hands. "Muldoon," She looked to the uniformed officer closest to her, "let me see your baton." The mocha-skinned man quickly handed her the club without hesitation. Its weight was familiar and settled comfortably in her hand. She extended it to its full length with a practiced flick of her wrist and smirked a little. Sofia carefully used the baton to move the suitcase's flap. She almost wished she hadn't. There was a thick black rubber, silicone and plastic sex toy sitting right on top of a white oxford shirt. It wasn't a neck massager. She looked at the table and then at Jim Brass.

All the Homicide Capitan could do was shake his head, "She's gone."

Sofia let the flap drop back in place, "Yeah," Her words were sharp, caustic and unapologetically sarcastic, "she's in the wind."

* * *

"They have officially taken this case away from us. They are jetting Dupree off to some undisclosed location for her protection, ah yes and the woman at the root of all this just disappeared into thin air. Long Legged Lawyer is telling me that all the case files have to be handed over and that blonde Marshall bitch is telling me that I have to drop all charges against Dupree. The press is having a field day with this entire spectacle on top of everything else. I have the Sheriff, the mayor, I even have the Governor calling me, demanding to know what's going on and all I can say is-"

Undersheriff Jeffery McKeen threw up his hands in absolute disgust, "All I can say is oops, our bad? Am I getting all of this strait? Have I missed anything here, CSI Sidle?"

She honestly had no idea what to say to that. Sara continued to wring her hands behind her back, "I guess that's about it, sir."

She was standing in the Undersheriff's office, almost at parade rest, preparing herself for the eventual pink slip. Between McKeen and Ecklie she didn't have a sympathetic ear in the room. Grissom hadn't even shown up to show support for her. Not that she could blame him much, she wouldn't have come either if she could have gotten around it.

The sun filtered through the blinds and dust danced in it. The office was more meticulously decorated then a cop's should have been. There were framed photographs of McKeen with various politicians and mid-level celebrities. She liked Brass's office much better. It had a lived-and-worked in feeling to it. It was a cop's space, not a politician's. The desk was an antique, the chair he sat in was leather, and his suit was Italian. Of course hers was too at the moment. Still, it lacked _something_. Her detail-oriented mind and quick eyes took everything in and her left-brained mind filed it away weather she wanted to or not. It was a hazard of the job she did.

"Jeff, I don't think that-"

Conrad Ecklie's words were quickly cut off by a grunt from the undersherriff.

"Don't think what, Conrad? I know you didn't call the Feds, and I as sure as hell didn't. Now let's think about this, who benefits from getting Dupree off the hook here?"

She hadn't called the Feds. She had lost her temper with Catherine, Gil, and had gone to see Alex, which were all terrible ideas, but she _had not_ called the Feds. She knew who had, but this was her mess; there was no reason to drag Nick and Sofia down with her.

"But I-"

McKeen held up his hand to silence her and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself quiet.

"This kind of shit belongs over at Circus Circus, not my department. I mean we have rape, murder, gay love affairs, the Feds swooping in and cleaning up after us. Do you have any idea how damaging this all is?"

Sara blinked, was he kidding? Was he actually kidding? It had been _her_ name and picture that had been splashed across the front page of every newspaper in tri-state area. It had been Sara Sidle, not the LVPD at large, who had been talked about, and condemned on _Larry King Live_, _Nancy Grace_ and even _Access Hollywood_. The lab and the LVPD would survive, her career would not. Even if she wasn't fired, she could kiss any promotions goodbye.

"Sir, I think _I _understand."

McKeen leaned his elbows on his large mahogany desk, "No I don't think you do, Sidle." He shook his head, "Now you get one and only one chance here to explain yourself."

Ecklie, who was sitting in one of the guest chairs in the room, turned his head to look at her. If she didn't know any better, she would swear the assistant director was on _her_ side.

"All right, Sara, you need to tell us everything here."

She _was_ going looney-tunes because now he even sounded like he was on her side of this interrogation. She felt like she was back at Harvard, taking her oral exams. It was all 'yes sir', 'no sir', pressure to perform and mentally racing for answers that she knew she knew, but had problems vocalizing. Of course she had known the answers back at Harvard backwards, forward and in her sleep, just as she did now. Only now she was she wasn't so eager to answer. She would not lie, but she definitely wasn't telling the whole truth. There was a fine line between loyalty and stupidity and she had crossed that a while back, there was no need to back peddle now.

Sara clenched her hands behind her back tighter. Her fingers were strangling each other, and she could feel her knuckles and nails blanching white from the pressure.

"I didn't call the Marshall Service or The DOJ. I made a mistake by going to see Al-Miss Dupree, but the visit did not become intimate."

McKeen's eyebrow rose, "Really, Miss Sidle, because that's not what I heard."

Sara felt the words that she kept stockpiled for employee-boss situations drain out of her. She had only dealt with the undersherriff a handful of times. They didn't play golf on Sundays, but this was ridiculous.

"_Jeff."_

Sara turned to look at Ecklie, and was startled to see that his face was turning red and his beady eyes were narrowed at McKeen

"Grissom and Willows took Sidle off the case. Her trip to see Dupree was certainly ill-advised, but she didn't do it to throw the investigation."

McKeen folded his hands into a steeple, "Really, Conrad, because from where I'm sitting _your_ CSI just saved _her_ girlfriend's bacon and gave us a whole lot of trouble for it."

Sara had a quick almost whimsical impulse to say that she and Alex weren't together anymore. Some part of her, the part that desired to remain gainfully employed, squashed it before the words reached her mouth.

Ecklie, on the other hand screwed his thin lips into a scowl, "Yes, but I still don't think she blew the whistle. Sidle is nothing if not dedicated to this department."

Sara blinked, startled. That had sounded almost like a compliment. Ecklie had more then enough ammo to blow her out of the water right about now. So why was he defending her?

"If she's as loyal as you say she's going to be eager to help me close this case."

Ecklie nodded at her, and Sara didn't know what to do so she nodded too. If she was anything, she was loyal, that was for sure.

"Well," McKeen looked at her, "If you didn't call the Feds, who did, Miss Sidle?"

She shook her head, "I don't know, Sir. I didn't know they were here until they were-" Sara shrugged and let her hands drop in a vague motion, "here."

The Undersheriff didn't like that answer. She hadn't expected him to. She wasn't dumb. He wanted a quick, clean explanation that he could repeat to the six o'clock news. She didn't have one of those. Considering the case they'd dealt with she doubted anyone did. He was looking for a scapegoat. The way things were going she might as well put on a fuzzy sweater and call herself Billi.

"Let me make this very clear, Miss Sidle," She jerked herself out of her thoughts and focused on what she was sure was going to be important. "You can either tell me what I want to know or I can sign off on your thirty day suspension." He picked up a brown folder with the department seal on it. Sara recognized it as her own record, her jacket.

"Now, who leaked this case to the Department of Justice?"

"What?-"

McKeen slapped the folder against the edge of the desk, "Are you protecting your old professor too, Sidle?"

She and Ecklie's exclamations of, "What?!" were synchronized and almost in perfect harmony.

"Sir I never-if I had known Blake was a killer I would have brought her in myself!" She had no loyalty to murderers.

Ecklie nodded, "CSI Sidle is one of the most dedicated investigators I have. She would bring her own mother in if she thought she was guilty for something."

Sara swallowed bile and desperately fought to maintain her composure for more then one reason.

"Who's the mole, Sidle?"

Sara's eyebrows shot up and her mouth fell open, "Mole, sir?"

McKeen scowled at her, "Forty-five days."

Ecklie stood now, "Sidle and her suspension are under _my _purview, Jeff."

Mckeen shrugged, "And you're under mine, Conrad." He picked up his engraved and gold-plated fountain pen, "Who was it, Sidle? Was it one of your buddies, Stokes, Sanders or Brown maybe?

Sara felt her stomach grind and sweat pop up on the back of her neck. "No I don't-"

"Or was it Grissom or your big fan Catherine?"

Sara struggled to keep the bitter laughter bubbling up in her throat from coming out. The man obviously had no idea what was going on at the lab.

McKeen flipped open her folder, "Sixty days without pay or you tell me who called Shannon and Carmichael."

"I don't know, Sir." Her tone was serious and the meaning behind her words was painfully obvious. McKeen stared her down, and while she didn't say anything more, she didn't break eye-contact either.

"You brought this on yourself, Sidle. Two months with no pay." He signed off on the order, making it a permanent black mark in her record. "Get her the hell out of here, Ecklie."

She was frozen in place, amazed she still had a job at all, and simultaneously horrified that she was suspended. Ecklie's non-too-subtle nudge was the thing that got her moving. She put one foot in front of the other and found her way into the hallway. If she hadn't thrown up most of her internal organs earlier she would have right then.

She still had her job, which was a miracle in itself, but was suspended for two months. Two months? What was she supposed to do with two months of down time? How the hell did she keep getting herself into these completely screwed up situations? She kept going, one foot in front of the other, and stopped only when she heard her name.

"Sidle."

Sara turned and blinked but didn't respond, she was still trying to catch up with what had happened.

"Sara."

She looked at the speaker and slowly focused on Conrad Ecklie, her boss.

"Sara, I need your gun, id and access cards, and you'll need to turn in any other tools and supplies that you have in your possession." He paused, "And I'll need your kit."

Was that all? He just needed the things that were pieces of her. The things that defined her. Her tools, her job, her life.

Her movements were brusque and mechanical, like she didn't care at all. She unclipped the holster and removed the laminated id from their respective places on her belt. It lightened up considerably, but she was used to the weight. She felt unbalanced and her belt, the belt that Alex had bought her just that morning, fell strangely at her waist. Sara took out her wallet and handed over the magnetic access card with the same emotionless movements, and swore that her wallet weighed significantly less.

"I've got the paperwork in my office. You'll be able to draw unemployment if you need it."

Sara shook her head, she wasn't unemployed. She didn't need handouts, charity or pity. "No, I have savings and" She paused, "I'll be fine."

Ecklie didn't look especially convinced. "You're still entitled to your _medical_ insurance and union resources."

Ecklie had pocketed her cards and had her gun in one hand, "_Are_ you going to be okay?"

She didn't answer because she didn't really know and wasn't sure why he was asking anyway.

"Is it so surprising?"

Yes, it was, her entire day had been an endless line of unpleasant surprises. Which one was he talking about? It hardly mattered.

"That I care about you and the rest of your team?"

Sara blinked, "I-"

"My career has revolved around keeping this lab going strong. In that time I've seen allot of things. I've seen investigators come and go. CSIs are a dime a dozen and we both know that. Your team, on the other hand has been shot at, kidnapped, beaten, buried, left for dead and split up, yet you're all still here, together. I am your supervisor, in charge of keeping the lab afloat and certified. Vegas sets the bar for every other non-federal lab in the country because we have the best of the best. No one has ever questioned your skills, Sidle, or your loyalty."

Ecklie took a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"This is the fly-out information the Marshals handed over. Dupree's gone by tonight and since you're not LVPD at the moment there's no reason not to be there to see her off."

Sara held the hand-scrawled card in her hand and watched Ecklie walk away from her.

"Enjoy your time off, Sidle."

Sara sighed, "Right." It would take the whole two months to figure out exactly what had just happened.

Author's Note: Ecklie really is human, shocking.


	54. Chapter LIII: Girl Talk

_Chapter LIII_

_Girl Talk_

Everything had spun wildly, so so wildly, out of control so fast that everything was a blur. It reminded her of a car wreck she'd been in when she was sixteen. She had been sixteen, stupid, invulnerable. She'd been driving her uncle's brand new Viper. She had just wanted to show off, she'd been a teenager and it had been a seriously cool car. Of course she only vaguely remembered driving it, and had only flashes of the wreck that had totaled the slick red speed machine. What she did remember, vividly, was everything clearing up and coming into focus when she was in the hospital. She had felt very much like she did now. It was a nauseating mix of confusion, relief and guilt.

Her uncle hadn't been mad at her, not precisely, it had only been a car. The insurance money had replaced it and the van she skidded into. Young driver, slick road, he had just been glad that she hadn't been seriously hurt or killed. It had just been a car back then. This time it was a woman's life.

It had been her case, her leads, her work and this is what it had come to. Not that she had anyone to blame but herself, and possibly Catherine but she was holding her tongue on that matter. She had been the one who had green-lighted Nick's call to Carmichael. Of course, Dupree needed protection, and it was in her best interest to cooperate with the investigation. All things considered she had done a superb job given the circumstances of the case. So why did she feel like she'd screwed the pooch big time?

She leaned against the wall between the doors of the interrogation rooms. She had taken her hair down and it fell around her face in a pale, limp, lifeless curtain. There was one very _big_ reason she felt like she had failed. Her actions had directly lead to Sara's two month suspension and there wasn't a damn thing she could do to fix it.

Then again, maybe there was.

Dupree didn't even flinch when she threw the door open. Sofia wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but it hardly mattered. What mattered was the fact that she was about to abuse her power to get a message across to Dupree. A message that the woman may or may not take to heart. If Dupree took the credit for calling in the feds, then McKeen would reinstate Sara. It was a long shot, a from the half-line long shot but she had to take it. She just needed a few minutes alone with Dupree away from the lawyers, cameras and assistants.

"You need to 'fess up."

Alex Dupree pushed her fingers through her mussed and messy mane of curls, "I don't know where the hell you've been, but some fucking Sippowitz knock-off already hammered me and then I him and the two Feds everything I could think of and if I could I would tell them more. I'm tired, pissed, sick to my stomach and I don't have anything else to say."

Sofia jerked the other chair out from under the table and sat down across from the model. She put her elbows on the table, slumped forward and massaged her temples with her fingertips of her left hand.

"Sara is this close, "She held her right thumb and forefinger a half of an inch apart, "from getting fired because you're trying to pull a fast one."

Sofia didn't flinch. "I don't know how much you've seen on TV. but I'll go ahead and let you know that local cops really don't like it when Big Brother _barges_ in." She sat up strait, "We really don't like it when they _rip_ cases out from under us." Aggravated now, Sofia pulled out a toothpick and took the wrapper off and rolled the wood between her fingers, "And we _really hate_ it when they rush in and spirit off important people and _hide_ them away in witness protection."

Alex let her arms drop to the table and she stared at Detective with an unreadable look on her pretty face. Sofia stared right back at her. It only took a moment for everything to fall into place in Dupree's mind. She watched the other woman's blue eyes spark with understanding when the realization set in. Would she go along with it though, now that was the question.

"I have no fucking idea what the hell you're talking about." Alex sat back against the strait back of her chair, "And cut the leaning in to show me cleavage and twirling that toothpick sexily bullshit. I'm a model not an idiot and even if I was, I don't know anything else to tell you."

Sofia took the hit on the chin. Dupree wasn't going to play nice with her, damn.

Silence took over the room for a minute.

"You know, Detective, I know cops. Trust me, I've met plenty of your kind. Some cops are dicks, some are saints. I bet you fall somewhere in the middle. You're a good cop. You solve your cases, you don't take bribes, hell Sahara even said that you did some time as a CSI so you can't be all that dumb. You sort of remind me of a cop I used to know."

Dupree paused and a momentary shadow fell over baby blues. Curiosity burned red hot in her Sofia's brain, but she said nothing. Whatever had distracted Dupree was pushed aside and the other woman shrugged, "Yeah, your attitude could use a major overhaul, but you're all right, I guess. You lie for shit but you're okay."

Sofia had, during Dupree's ranting, stood up and walked to the far wall. She was full of restless energy, and didn't want to sit.

"Why would I lie?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, "And what, exactly, am I lying about anyway?"

Dupree got up too, but did not lean against the wall. Alex, instead, started to pace. No, Sofia corrected herself, what Dupree was doing couldn't be called pacing. It was far too graceful. "They're not going to fire Sara. That's in-fucking-sane. You don't fire your headliner on the night of the big show."

Sofia chewed on her toothpick and crossed her arms over her chest, "They suspended her for two months without pay because they think she called the Feds to save you."

Alex stopped still, "Well that's just _fucking_ stupid. Sara hates the FBI. They're nothing but fucking useless bastards in shitty off-the-rack suits and they're-God." She threw up her hands, "Don't even get me started on the Fucking Federal Beuru of Bullshit Investigating Asshat Idiots. I wouldn't call those bastards if my life depended on it and frankly neither would Sara."

Sofia raised her eyebrows and filed away the information, minus the obscenities, for later perusal.

"It's not the FBI, so you can stop cursing."

Dupree shrugged, "Aren't all the agencies the same? You know what it doesn't matter. I know she didn't call them."

Sofia rolled the toothpick between her teeth before settling it between her incisor and first molar, "What are you implying here, Dupree?"

Alex folded her own arms over her chest and made it look absurdly and annoyingly sexy, "How do I know you didn't call them, Detective?"

Still buzzing with nervous energy, Sofia went back to the table and sat in her chair. She stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the ankles. She didn't bother to wait for Dupree to join her, "Why would _I_ undermine my own investigation?"

Dupree did sit down, she took the other chair and turned it backwards so when she sat she could drape her arms over the strait back. "I've seen the way you look at her, Detective." At Sofia's quick reaction, Alex grinned, "Oh don't pretend, it's beneath you, me and her."

Sofia draped one of her arms over the back of her own chairback, "No, really you've lost me."

"It's Sahara, Sara. She's just got something, some aura about her, that makes you want to move mountains and drain oceans if it would make her happy. It's inexplicable, and you've already got yourself tangled up in it. Trust me, you'll get caught up and you'll like it. She has that effect on people. Those who slip behind that wall she's built up, I mean. She makes people care without trying, and trust me she's got you hooked."

"It sounds more like you're the one that's seriously tangled up."

Alex tugged on a limp curl, "Oh yes." Alex's trademarked beautiful face twisted into a frown but that slowly lessened into a somewhat unreadable expression. "Love, real love, is like malaria, Detective. It gets under your skin and encompasses your entire being. If it doesn't kill you, it will fade away, and you almost forget, but it never goes away. It'll surge back and knock you on your ass." She rubbed her hands across her makeupless face, "And I walked right into it this time."

Sofia frowned, "You didn't know she was here. Running into her at UNLV was a billion-in-one shot." She watched Alex's face and something connected in her mind. "It wasn't random, wasn't it?" You knew she was going to be there."

The model sighed and slumped against the back of her chair, and propped her chin on her folded arms. "Blake told me, mentioned it so casually at breakfast. So I made some calls. You'd be amazed how easy it is to get information sometimes. _I'm Sara's sister, just in from San Francisco and I was hoping to surprise her today. _I didn't even have to go that far out of my way, I just tagged along with the tour and there she was. I couldn't resist."

Sofia absorbed that and was left with more questions then answers. Before she could even think about asking those questions, Dupree spoke again. "I know what you're thinking, you know. The question is on the tip of your tongue. If I love her so fucking much, why the hell did I let her go?" Dupree chuckled to herself, "Admit it, you want to know my side of the story."

Sofia crossed her arms, she did want to know, for curiosity's sake if nothing else. "That's between you and Sara, I'm just a neutral party doing her job."

"Bull shit." Dupree stretched the syllables and made the words sound strangely eloquent. "I know you want to know and hell I haven't confessed to anything so I might as well tell you something. You never know, you might even learn something. It wouldn't be good for you to make the exact same mistake I did." She leaned her chin against her forearms and started to speak. It was her tone, and the look in her face that told Sofia that she was being sincere.

"I screwed up, that's for damn sure. I was young and cocky and I was taking the world by storm. Of course, so was Sara in her own way. She getting close to another promotion and her solve-rate was way the hell up. She was one-half of Frisco's Wonder Twins of Law Enforcement. Both of us were unstoppable, career wise. In our home lives, things weren't so great." She paused and pushed her fingers through her loose braid to release the wild curls. It was obviously a nervous habit, a tell. Alex played with her hair and started to speak again. "I would like to say it was as simple as the cheating."

The supermodel chuckled, "I could sugar coat it, but I have a feeling you wouldn't believe it, so I'll be real. I was knocking boots with every other woman I could behind Sara's back. I would have kept at it too, had she not caught me at it."

Sofia had heard a much-less detailed version of this from Sara, "And then it was good-bye girlfriend, right."

Alex laughed, actually laughed out loud. "You know, it was, but I think that given time I could have won her back." Her blue eyes clouded over again and Sofia wondered exactly where she had gone. "Yeah, I could have made things okay, but I didn't really get the chance. She left and-" Dupree shook her head, "Have you ever done anything unforgivable, Detective?"

Sofia blinked, "I don't know what you mean."

Alex twisted her hair around and through her fingers, "I mean there are day-to-day mistakes you make that you can laugh about later and then there are _mistakes_. You know, the bad mistakes, the sort of mistakes that put people in the hospital. I made one of those sorts of mistakes and that's how I lost Sara. I mean one minute she was walking out the door of our place, swearing we were through and the next minute I'm getting _the_ call. That call that every cop-girlfriend always expects but prays they never get. I didn't hurt her, not physically, never physically, but the guilt, Jesus the fucking knowledge that I put her in that position. Do you have any idea what that feels like?

Sofia stood up, half pissed and not sure exactly why. "I'm too busy for this. Your Feds are outside, waiting to tell you how they're going to bail you out of this."

She was all the way to the door before Alex said anything and then it was only "Thank you."

Sofia snorted, "Yeah." Her voice was sharp and dripping sarcasm.

"Oh and Detective?"

Sofia turned, "What?"

Dupree opened her mouth, and then closed it without saying another word. The hurt woman of before, the one who had poured her heart out disappeared. She was slowly overtaken by the calm, cool and collected supermodel once more. If she hadn't have been there and seen it herself, she would have never realized what lay beneath all the polish and shine.

Sofia left the interrogation room and headed towards the locker room and the home. She still wasn't sure if she had succeeded, but she had plenty to think about.

The brick was rough against her bare arms. She had long since taken off the stylish jacket and rolled up her several hundred dollar sleeves. She had desperately needed to feel the stingy breeze on her skin. She flicked the still burning stub of a cigarette into the parking lot and watched the red cherry's glow gradually fade into non-inexistence. Nerves and newly-reestablished habit had her immediately reaching for another cigarette. There was only one left out of the entire pack. Everyone was entitled to a vice, and right now she feel like being a good girl, besides where had being a good little CSI gotten her? Sara chuckled bitterly at her own unvoiced self-depreciating joke. She pulled her lighter out of the same pocket and put the unfiltered Camel between her unpainted lips. The lighter glinted in the weak glow of the security light. It was an old friend, silver plated and engraved with three intricate S's, it had been a gift from Alex that she had never quite gotten rid of. She was surprised it still worked after all these years. The metal felt cool against her hot skin and the click and flick of the Zippo's top and the small heat of the flame were all familiar. It was comforting even if it was killing her. Of course it seemed like anything that brought her comfort lately was somehow bad for her. Grissom had brought her lots of comfort once and in the end it had screwed her up worse then usual.

She sucked the smoke into her lungs and let the nicotine do it's work. Grissom was still one of her hot-button issues. Not that she would have to deal with him for a while. McKeen had made very sure of that. She was persona-non-grata to all LVPD personnel and offices. She wouldn't be surprised to see posters with her picture with a red slash through it taped to the walls. Someone _really_ needed to explain the rules to her. She must have missed them on orientation day. Not that she'd had an orientation day, but still. It was just felt like no matter what she did, she was wrong. If she gave Ecklie a piece of her mind, she was suspended. If she bit her tongue to the point it bled and took everything McKeen gave her without so much as a peep, she was suspended. If she worked all the time, she needed to go out more. If she had a life outside of the lab she was a distraction at best and a whore in everyone else's eyes. Was it her or did the rest of the world need to get it's act together?

Thinking back on it, she had been in the right when Ecklie had suspended her the first time. June Melton had really been in danger. Had anyone acknowledged that? No, of course not. On the other hand, she wasn't completely in the right this time. She had made her decisions and would have to live with it. She should count herself lucky that she still had a job at all. She had either paid off her karma at a vastly accelerated rate over the past few years or she actually had Ecklie to thank for saving her job. It was funny, she had always figured that Satan would be hosting the ice-capades long before Conrad Ecklie tried to help her. It was confusing at best, and she didn't even have the energy to think about it.

All she wanted to do now was go home, and hide away until the media latched onto the next big story. She wanted to play with her dog, and go jogging and God, she wanted to work. Too bad she would have to settle for two out of the three.

Damn it," Sara puffed impatiently, was her ride ever going to show up? That's what she got for calling her perpetually late friend instead of catching a cab. She just hadn't been up to riding with a complete stranger who recognized her from the tabloids and news reports. She needed a friend, someone who would listen or let her be silent. She needed someone who hadn't been on the case with her. She didn't want to go over it again and again. It was over and done with, end of the story, case closed. She was trying very hard to convince herself it was, at least.

Maybe she would get out of town. She had ample time and plenty of money in her savings and checking account. She could go anywhere and do anything she wanted to. She had always wanted to go on a cruise, maybe down to South America or Australia. She wanted to go somewhere with real seasons again, she missed seasons. Paris was lovely this time of year. Sara blew out smoke in a sigh. She was back where she had started, thinking about things that were best left as distant memories.

"I wish he would hurry up."

The silent lumps of metal and fiberglass in the parking lot didn't answer her.

The case, and all the facts and events that went with it began to run back through her head. Bile started to crawl up her throut and she knew that she was about to be sick again. Her reaction was almost second nature; she smiled big and wide and focused on a distant point in the parking lot. They were just little tricks she'd picked up to retard the gag reflex. It was just about the fiftieth time she'd had to fight for composure since the case had been "solved". She didn't know why it was affecting her so much. It wasn't like this was the first time her maternal figure had turned out to be a murderess.

"You'd think I'd expect it by now."

She was talking to herself, great. At least she wasn't answering herself yet. She'd obviously been spending too much time around Sofia.

Sofia. Damn.

She didn't know what, if anything, she had could say to the other woman. She wasn't even sure if she was supposed to say anything. It was, like the rest of her life, complicated.

She blew out another sigh and started patting down her pockets for her phone.

Sara heard the footsteps headed her way over her own sigh. She abandoned the futile search for her work phone, she had turned that in along with her department-issued forensics case. Frustrated, Sara just stared up at the sky, smoked her last cigarette and hoped whoever it was left her alone. She'd already used all of her patience and tact reserves for the day.

"Sidle."

Sara closed her eyes and took another long, deep drag. If there was a God somewhere out there, he or she was laughing.

She let her head drop to its natural position and turned to look at Catherine. The look on the other woman's face wasn't exactly a pleasant one. Sara blew out a sigh, and the gray smoke from her half gone cigarette rose in a cloud above her.

"What, you think you're smart, Sara?"

Not at the moment, Sara mused bitterly. If she had been smart, she would have taken a cab instead of waiting on her best friend's late ass. Not that Catherine needed to know that.

"What you've had your fifteen minutes and you're suddenly above answering to me?"

She hadn't wanted the exposure to begin with and no one wanted to answer Catherine when she was in a mood.

"And when the hell did you start smoking?"

Sara took another deep drag, "When I was about fifteen or so. I quit a few years ago and started again about ten minutes after I was held at gunpoint while I was practically naked. It seemed like a good idea at the time." She took a quick drag, "Still does, actually."

Catherine marched, there was no other word for the way she moved at the moment, over to her and stood right in front of her. Sara had nowhere else to look. It was uncomfortable to say the least.

"I am going to get your ass suspended, mark my words."

Sara blew other jet of smoke out the side of her mouth, away from Catherine. "Are the boys still keeping you out of the He-Man Woman Haters Club, Cath? You should storm the clubhouse and get caught up. McKeen took all your fun earlier. You won't be seeing me again for two entire months."

Catherine gasped a little. Weather she thought that two months was far too long or she was angry at missing the show was unclear.

"Well you brought this on yourself. You're_ lucky _your shenanigans didn't get you fired."

Sara chuckled, "Not that you didn't try?"

Catherine threw her hands up, "I don't believe you. You're the most wildly arrogant person I've ever met and since I met your girlfriend that's saying something. You went to the Feds and had your love-bunny stolen right out from under our noses. You can't just fuck with a case, my case, and walk away scot free, Sara! What do you think this looks like?"

It wasn't like she had planned any of this. Sara weighed her options and her words quickly and carefully. She was already suspended; there was little else Catherine could do.

"I don't know, I bet it looks a lot like a daughter getting her corrupt murderer father off the hook by messing with DNA samples." Sara shrugged, "Or at least blowing up a lab because she was careless."

Catherine's entire body went tense and she drew herself up to her full height, which still left her a few inches shorter then herself, Sara smirked.

"How _dare_ you?"

Sara shrugged and mentally reminded herself that she wasn't backing down this time.

"Tit for tat, Willows."

Catherine was all but trembling with anger and Sara felt completely numb. Either she had been out in the night air too long or she simply didn't have the energy to care anymore.

"You're comparing Sam to some attention whore and you expect me to pretend like this isn't all your doing anyway?"

Something inside her, beneath the numb, crackled to life.

Sara was tired, damn tired, of giving in. She was tired of being a second class citizen, a peon beside Catherine. She wasn't going to kowtow anymore.

"We are talking about my life that you went way out of your way to put your nose in. You harassed Alex and me and I have had enough!"

She shoved past Catherine to get some space. The last thing she needed right now was assault charges.

Where was her ride?

"She's a criminal."

Sara turned on her heel, "You thinking it doesn't make it a fact, Catherine. Jesus Christ, you barged in on me while I was _naked_!"

She couldn't see them but Sara knew Catherine's eyes had turned a dangerous ice blue.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, Sara."

Sara froze in her tracks. The numbness was burnt away by her temper. She flicked the cigarette away. "God, every time I think I've forgot, you drag it back up. It all has to be about _you_."

They were three feet apart in the dark back parking lot of the LVPD central station. If there were others around them were keeping their distance.

The silence, so loaded with unsaid words, was broken by a sigh and it was from Catherine. It wasn't angry or accusatory, it almost seemed resigned. "What was I? Some sick stand in for _her_?"

That was the heart of it. Catherine had made her life a living hell because she had felt scorned or used or who the hell knows. When was she going to learn, Sara nagged at herself, to stay away from blondes?

Sara would almost sell her soul for another cigarette. "No, Catherine. You were something else entirely."

The blonde laughed, almost hysterically now, "What a substitute for Gil? A band-aid to make you feel better, what?"

It was a question she had already asked herself several times. She had never come up with a good, solid answer. There was no balanced equation for her love life. She had, right after the short and blistering hot affair ended, decided that it had been temporary insanity. Later on, when she'd had time to distance herself from everything, she had reasoned that she had been lonely and horny and Catherine had been willing. It wasn't a very pretty explanation but it had tied everything up neatly. Over the past few days she had come up with a new theory. It was quick, concise and very accurate.

She watched her ride pull through the gate. It was impossible to miss the classic GTO Judge. She had one shot at this and she was going to take it. She'd be crazy not to take a guilt and consequence free shot at Catherine.

""You were a mistake, Catherine. One I deeply regret and am trying to put out of my head."

For once, Sara marveled, Catherine Willows had absolutely nothing to say.

The beautiful orange '69 GTO slowed and glided to a stop right in front of her, and she opened the passenger door. Sara didn't say anything, to herself, to Catherine or to the car's shadowy driver, and she didn't look back.

Had she glanced in the rear-view mirror, like the driver did, she would have seen Catherine standing there, clearly silhouetted in the yellow light, shoulders slumped, watching her drive away.


	55. Chapter LIV: Film Noir Goodbye

_Chapter LIV_

_Film Noir Goodbye_

The case was being handed over to the Federal Authorities. For Jim and Sofia that meant paperwork and lots of it. A transfer at the crimelab, however, was much more work. There was a physical transfer of notes, sketches, photos, video, personel logs, test readouts and results, autopsy video, notes and reports and of course there was the physical evidence. Four dead men, one dead woman, one mutilated survivor, that's all the FBI wanted from Las Vegas. Grissom knew what the FBI wanted because he had already been in contact with one of the Supervisory Special Agents in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The Justice Department felt that the profilers had the best chance of understanding, tracking and arresting Victoria Blake.

There was more to the case then just simply a handful of people. Families had been torn apart, people's lives changed so radically that only their DNA would be recognizable. This case has dragged on and on, each twist and revelation had been more disturbing then the last. He had been an investigator for more years then he'd like to count and every single year there were more rapes, more murders. Every year the criminals got more devious, more bloodthirsty and more, just more. Then as if wading through death and sorting through the debris of despair wasn't bad enough, the press had to give it their own spin. The macbre truth didn't require spin. It didn't need any extra drama added to it. Blood, sex and scandal sold papers, and all of that was cheap and plentiful in Vegas. So plentiful that it had spilled into his life.

He checked the contents of each of the evidence cartons against the list. He signed off on each item and prepared the master list for transfer to the federal labs. His hands moved with the ease of habit and practice, but his thoughts were far from the blood-soaked motel bed sheets that had been bagged and tagged days before.

He'd been on a rollercoaster, one made of events, emotions and stress instead of steel or wood. Had he known that the pretty girl with the ponytail at his lecture so long ago would become such an important part of his life, he might have never spoke to her. No, he sighed and took off his glasses, that was going a bit far. Sara had been apart of his life, in various roles and degrees of importance for years and he didn't regret that. It was just, he searched for an appropriate word, hard. It was hard to stand by and watch her pull away from him. It was even harder to acknowledge that the things she had said, yelled, at him were true. He had treated her diffrintly. It was impossible to remember exactly when he had started. Maybe he had done so from the day she had arrived in Vegas. She had come to Vegas at his request and had stayed, also at his request. He had wanted her to stay. He had put his request in the form of a job offer, and she had happily accepted it.

It was funny, he mused as he taped up the evidence carton, he had never wondered what had motivated her to jump up and leave her hometown for Las Vegas. He had, at first, believed that the job had been too good for her to pass up. The lab was number two in the country, afterall. Then again, San Fransisco's facilities were nothing to sneeze at. Later on, he'd decided that she'd come for him. She had made statements to that effect several times and he'd never had a reason to doubt it. He'd never doubted it until now. It was hard to ignore evidence, especially when it was in your face and all around. Sara hadn't _come_ to Vegas for _him_. She had _left_ Frisco to get away from _her_.

He signed his initials, two plain and precise Gs, on the box's seal and started on the second box. There were so many pieces of the case to sort through and consider. Nothing was simple anymore.

He looked at the evidence bag that was next. It was the chain that Kera Heine had kept her trophies on. The rings looked dull and lifeless under the fluorescent lighting.

He couldn't point to a day on the calendar and say that was where things had started to destabilize and disentigrate. He'd been on a gradual slide towards exhaustion for a long time. If he had to pick a time where things really started to get out of hand, it would have to be the morning he had walked into Izzy Delancy's kitchen.

He put the bagged and tagged jewelry into the box and checked it off the list. He didn't need to dwell on it. He had, to use the vernacular, dumped Sara. He had spent months telling himself that it was for her their own good. Kera Hiene had spent months convincing herself that the answer to rape was mutilating and killing men. They had both deluded themselves.

The diffrince between them was obvious, though. Heine had been driven by hate and had mixed lust and blood into a concoction that was both bitter and heinous. She had run wild through the city, leaving death in her wake.

He had been playing with feelings, emotions, and souls, not lives. He'd been toying around with romance and love like he had his first chemistry set. In the end they would both have to face down their just deserts. Heine would have her day in court and serve her time in jail. He would-

David Hodges came around the corner of the table and into his line of vision from seemingly nowhere. Startled, Grissom fumbled the pen in his hand and dropped the sheaf of photographs he'd been arranging. Both hit the back-lit layout table with a whispy clatter. The ball point pen bounced and rolled off the table and into the floor, the photos spread across the table helter skelter. Dead bodies, blood, human beings turned to grusome puzzle pieces. They had pieced together the entire puzzle this time, but it didn't make sense, he didn't know why he had thought it would.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you-"

He did it without thinking, he read the other man's lips and relied on what that told him just as much, if not more, then what he heard him saying. The immediate message was more visual then auditory, par for the course when one battled reoccurring hearing loss.

"What do you want, Dave?"

His voice was calm and even, but that too was unremarkable, expected and normal even. He started collecting and reorganizing the crime scene photos without missing a beat.

The trace-annalysis expert fiddled with his collar, "I-" He held out his hand to indicate the rest of the lab, "We just wanted to see if you are okay."

On the one hand it was kind of him to ask. On the other, Grissom doubted that the various lab techs had made a committee and voted Hodges their spokesman.

"I-"

Grissom put the newly-organized pictures in a plain brown accordion file folder. How was he doing?

"I'll be okay, Dave, thank you for asking."

He would be okay, eventually. He would talk to Sara in a week or so, after Alexandra Dupree had left. They would be able to fix things. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someday they would be okay again. There was a certain comfort in that idea.

"Help me finish boxing this up." He motioned the other man over, "And you can tell me about those thought excercises you've been talking about."

* * *

"This is nothing like _Casa Blanca_."

Alex Dupree squinted and looked around the remote tarmac in dismay, then back at her companion. Sahara was dressed in a black tee-shirt and had sunglasses on. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Alex, on the other hand, couldn't find her Dolce & Gabanna shades, not that it mattered now. In a few minutes she had to get on the waiting Lear Jet. She was getting out of Vegas and going to only God and the Feds knew.

Sara gave her a sidelong glance, "Well, we're no Rick and Ilsa."

Alex smirked, "Oh, I don't know, we'll always have Paris."

That brought a small smile to Sara's far too serious face.

The two women were at a way-out-of-the-way airstrip somewhere around the vicinity of the middle of nowhere. The press was all over McCarran and after Blake's escape, everyone wanted to avoid more exposure. Sara and Alex were standing together in a slim shadow beside the cavernous steel and aluminum hanger, half-heartedly talking. The sun was setting in the west and if either of the women had bothered to pay attention to it, they would have said it was beautiful. The fading golds, glowing oranges, dreamy pinks and the burning red painted over the sky's thousand shades of blue until it blurred and blended to indigo and black at the edge of the eastern skyline. The desert around them was slowing coming out of its daytime slumber; it was revealing its wonders of the night. The women couldn't care less. It had been a long and trying day and they were ending the same way they had began it, together. It was an awkward sort of together, one that didn't sit quite comfortably anymore.

"For what it's worth, Sahara, I am sorry." She paused and looked off at the desert in the distance, and added, "For _everything_."

There was plenty of everything that lay between them.

Sara sighed and pushed her glasses tighter to the bridge of her nose, "Everything wasn't your fault. I know I'm not the easiest person to live with."

"That's for damn sure."

Both women started to laugh and Alex leaned against the metal skin of the hanger.

"I heard from a little bird that you've been suspended."

Sara propped her boot-covered foot against the hanger and crossed her arms over her chest, "Yeah."

Alex matched her pose, "I'm betting that was probably at least a little bit my part."

Sara's mouth twisted as if she was swallowing words. After a moment she pushed one hand through her hair and adjusted her sunglasses with the other. "It would have probably happened eventually with or without your help. It's been a rough couple of years."

Alex let out a sigh, "Have you thought about going _home_? I never changed the locks, and I don't think I'll be barging in anytime soon. Just a mini-vacation. You could go see the old crowd."

Sara only got a few syllables out before Alex continued.

"Or you could take a trip out to the farm. Get some of that fresh air you love so much and spend some time spoiling my brothers's children. They've grown so much since you saw them last."

She turned ninety degrees to face Sara and for extra emphasis, took the other woman's sunglasses off her face. "Don't say no just yet. Go to my place, go to see the family. Go somewhere, anywhere but here. This place isn't good for you."

They were less then a foot apart, staring each other down. It was just like old times.

"Alex." Sara closed her eyes for a moment, as though she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to be there, "For better or worse, Las Vegas _is_ home now."

The blonde model reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Sara's ear. Her hand lingered on Sara's cheek. "I'm just worried that's all, Sahara. I know you can take care of yourself just fine, but I want you to know that no matter where I am, I can be back here anytime you need me.

Sara reached up and covered Alex's hand with her own and for a moment they were quiet.

Sara took the other woman's hand off of her cheek, but didn't quite let it go. "I'm really going to miss you."

Alex pulled her into a hug, "It's been great seeing you again."

"Ahem."

Sara looked over Alex's shoulder to see a somewhat uncomfortable, impatiently waiting Marshall Shannon.

"We have to go."

Alex let out a loud, melodramatic sigh, "Okay, okay, fine." She didn't move an inch.

"You take care of yourself, Sahara Sun. No heroics, obsessions or brooding, you hear me. Leave that stuff to people who have capes and powers, okay?"

Sara leaned closer, "Only if you behave, Lexa. Listen to the Marshalls and the attorneys and don't cause problems."

Alex closed the gap and leaned her forehead against Sara's. "I guess this is it."

Sara smiled a little, "I guess."

"One more for the road, then."

Before Sara could fully process what the other woman said, Alex kissed her.

No matter how long or far apart they were, Alex's kisses would _still_ floor her. This one was different though, it was a bittersweet goodbye kiss. It was the kiss they hadn't shared the first time Sara had left. It was sweet and almost chaste, like a first kiss but more finite and just a little bit sad. Sara broke the kiss and felt something akin to reluctance. Groping for something close to normal, she slid her sunglasses back onto her face, "Goodbye Lexa."

Alex smiled at her and pushed a stubborn curl behind her ear, "Goodbye, Sahara. Take care of yourself and give the Detective a chance, she's a keeper."

She stood, slightly slack jawed Alex sauntered along side the scandalized Federal Marshall who was supposed to be protecting her. Sara stood and watched all the Feds board the plane, like ants running into a hill. No one said anything to her and when the stairs were folded up and the door closed, Sara knew it was over, but stayed to watch anyway. She covered her ears and watched the plane take off from the safety of the hanger. She stood there watching the sky until the plane, and Alex, disappear into the wild blue yonder.

"Now what?"

Sara pushed off of the wall and walked towards the parking lot. She was talking to herself, again, and didn't expect an answer.

She went around the fence and into the parking lot, still questioning herself: What she had been thinking, where were they taking Alex, what the hell was she going to do with herself for the next two months.

"Well," The voice, while expected, still startled her. "We can start by getting a beer, Skippy."

She opened the glowing orange car door and slid into the muscle car. She relished the feeling of cool leather against her skin. Her companion followed suit and opened the door he had been just been leaning against. The driver grinned at her and tucked his shaggy hair under his backwards baseball cap. "It's not like you have to go to work tonight or anything."

Sara closed, slammed, the car door and leaned back against the custom upholstery. She would lay her seat back the safety-seat in back wouldn't let her. "Rain check, man, I think I just want to go home today, okay."

The driver chuckled, "She always does that to you."

Sara glared at him, "Just drive, Mr. Observation."

He started the car with a roar of six cylinders, "You sure about that beer? I mean you just said goodbye to the hottest woman either of us could ever hope to sleep with."

Sara watched him smoothly shift into first, "Is that your twisted and perverted way of asking me if I'm okay?"

He smiled, "Is now a good time to mention that you're the best and I love you to death, Skittles?"

Sara smiled and closed her eyes behind her sunglasses, "Yeah, I know, but it's nice to be reminded every once and a while."

Author's Note: No that is not Greg. That is all.


	56. Chapter LV: Baby Steps

_Chapter LV_

_Baby Steps_

It was all over, Sofia thought, but for the crying. The case was closed except for a few loose ends. Loose ends that the DOJ could tug on, follow and tie up. They would hopefully find and arrest Victoria Blake and the Marshall Service had Alex Dupree in their hot hands. On her end though, it was definitely over. It was over and she was glad.

The paperwork she could handle. It was Sara she was worried about. The other woman had been through the ringer. Hell, she had been hit by a steam roll a couple of times. Was she handling everything okay? Sofia scowled into her open locker. Suspended or not, Sara was still apart of the team. Had anyone thought to check in on her? Maybe _she_ should go and check on Sara.

Sofia sat on the bench and stared blankly at the inside of her locker door, daydreaming or searching for answers, she didn't know.

Was she even in the position to check on Sara? For all she knew the other woman _wanted _to be left alone. Damn Dupree for making her realize just how much time she spent thinking about the brunette.

"Did you hear about that CSI chick?"

The man's voice echoed in the mostly empty co-ed locker room and Sofa could hear it perfectly no matter if she wanted to or not.

"Got herself on everyone's list now. She was suspended for all that bullshit she pulled with the Mutilator case. I heard McKeen has it out for her whole team."

Another voice echoed down to her ears and Sofia rolled her eyes. Gossip traveled fast and cops had big mouths.

"Watch your mouth, Kid. McKeen's a good cop and those science geeks _do_ need reigning in. They act like they run the damn show these days."

The third man sounded vaguely familiar and older then the first two. It was spreading far and wide, up and down the ladder, great. Sofia slumped, propped her elbows on her knees and let her head hang. Knowing Sara would be the center of locker room gossip was one thing; listening to it was another. She could either go tell the Three Stooges to shut up and add fuel to the already out of control fire. She could only imagine what that would get turned into. The other option was to let the scuttlebutt go unchecked and leave Sara undefended. She didn't particularly like either option.

"Hey," It was the first voice again, "isn't this the same CSI chick that was kidnapped a while back?"

"Yeah, back during that Miniature Killer cluster-fuck. Freaky Geeks really screwed the pooch good on that one."

Voice Number Three was an asshole.

The voices died down and Sofia hoped they would move on to something else.

"Is she gay or what? I could have sworn she was banging that creepy bug guy when all that happened."

Sofia pushed her hands through her loose blonde hair and wished that Voice Number Two knew when to shut his trap.

Voice Number Three let out a grunt and there was the distinct sound of Velcro being unstrapped, "Yeah, she was bouncing on her C.O. until they threatened to fire her." There was a minute of heavy breathing and half grunts. Someone was bending down to tie their shoes, Sofia scowled.

"It takes a real fucking ice queen to dump a guy for a job- even if it is Gruesome Grissom. That's what happens when you let _women _do men's work, bullshit like this."

Sofia rolled her eyes, how many times had she heard that in her life?

"She can't be _that_ cold. I mean she's been lezzing out with Alex frickin' Dupree, that's hot."

Voice Number One sounded young and stupid, had to be a rookie.

"Should have known it. I heard she was from San Fran-_sissy_-co."

Ah, now she knew who the third voice was. Sergeant Matt Olmstead had gone as far up the ladder as he would ever go. It was a reflection of both his attitude and his abilities. He was the sort of cop that gave cops a bad name.

"Hey I wouldn't kick her out of bed. Bi chicks are _nuts_. They sleep with anything that moves and are wild in bed. Rawr."

She was going to be sick or punch Voice One in the kidney, one or the other. She closed her locker quietly and stood to leave, she needed to get out of the locker room before the shit got too deep and the testosterone soaked air choked her.

"I wonder what other notches she's got on her strap-on?"

All three men laughed uproariously and she stopped in her tracks.

"What's that one's name? The girly-dyke?"

"Lipstick lesbian"

"Yeah, the one in White Collar. I bet she's been there and rode that."

The first voice had a wheezing laugh, like he was bent over double. Didn't anyone do sit-ups anymore?

"And we know she likes to play close to home, _and_ Catherine Willows used to be a stripper."

"A damn good one. I used to go out to the French Palace just to see her. Her ass was damn grab-able, it aint so bad now, either."

Sofia felt her lip curl, Olmstead was not only a pig, he was a pig with questionable taste in women.

"She's definitely bumped fuzzies with Ross."

There was a moment of quick silence and now that she could half see them, it was easier to follow the sick conversation.

Both Voice Two and Olmstead appeared confused so Number One, a sandy haired uniform she had only seen a handful of times, continued. "That bull-dyke who's trying to bully her way onto SWAT. Short black hair, bitchy attitude, Capitan of the girly boxer team."

The other two men both grumbled about Ross and Olmstead threw in an extra couple of remarks. She was just waiting to hear something along the lines of barefoot in the kitchen.

"My money's on Curtis."

Her eyes narrowed and she took a step or two forward, quietly on the balls of her feet, to get a look at Number Two. Carl Mason was convinced he was God's gift to women _and _Law Enforcement. He was sadly mistaken on both accounts, or so she'd heard.

Olmstead piped up again, "The Capitan? You're shittin' me."

Now Mason laughed, "No, Curtis the younger and hotter. Have you seen the way she struts around? She's a total she-bitch who's just asking for it." Sofia bet he was grabbing at his crotch and that made her gag. "And she's Brass's golden girl on top of everything else. Then again, have you seen her ass? That woman has the most _fuckable _ass I've ever seen."

Sofia shuddered, that had to be the most disturbing compliment she'd ever heard.

"You should have seen her mother when she first got here. I would have given my left nut for twenty minutes in the back of a black and white with Liz Curtis."

Oh now that was just too damn far, cop talk was one thing but that was her _mother_. She didn't step quietly and she didn't think ahead. She jerked around the end of the aisle with her hands balled up in to hard fists.

"Boys." Her voice was flat, and without the emotion that was raging through her.

Olmstead was down to his uniform pants and a wife beater tank top that was stretched to the last thread across his large pot belly. Mason's uniform shirt was hanging open over his bare chest, his pants around his ankles and he was wearing boxers with dancing shamrocks on them. The rookie was fully dressed, but his face was quickly turning crimson. It would have been comical if they all weren't such slimy male chauvinist pigs. God, now _she _sounded like Kera Hiene.

She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it without uttering a syllable. There was nothing she could say that wouldn't make things worse.

She just glared at them, Olmstead in particular, for a moment.

"I have better places to be."

She had places to be and people to see. She walked out through the halls and out the side door without speaking to another person. Dupree's words, more then the boy's raunchy conversation, echoed in her head.

"_Have you ever done anything unforgivable, Detective?"_

Sofia shook her head, she refused to do this to herself. She wasn't going to feel guilty.

"_The bad mistakes, the sort of mistakes that put people in the hospital."_

Sofia opened her car door and then paused, her thought process completely thrown off track. She should have never gone to talk to Dupree. The woman had put ideas, stupid ideas, in her head. She reared back and gave her front drivers side tire a solid kick. That had to be it, because she had told herself over and over again that what had happened to Sara was most assuredly not her fault.

For the most part she knew it wasn't her fault. Except there was one small, tiny, miniscule detail that would not allow itself to be forgotten: she could have prevented Sara's kidnapping.

_Six Months Earlier_

_LVPD Headquarters_

_It was written, as plain as day, on her blotter. It read very simply, in her own concise handwriting: ADA Ritchen and Sara S – Ellison Trial Prep. She had even noted the name of the restaurant down. She had every intention of going, or she did until Jim had swamped her with work. They were close, oh so very close, to cracking the Miniature Killer case wide open. She was running a search, reading a report and trying to drink coffee when her cell phone rang. She put her coffee down on a pile of DD5's just waiting to be signed off on, and flipped the phone open, slightly annoyed at the call._

"_Hey, it's Sara. I'm running late, is Ritchen there yet?" _

_Sofia glanced at her watch, she should have left at least five minutes ago. "No, sorry, Brass has me running down this lead on the Miniature Killer."_

"_Really? That's great."_

_Sofia smiled, put the file down and leaned back in her chair. "The good news is that we're getting close, the bad news is that I won't be able to make it tonight."_

_Sara sighed, "So I have to spend thirty minuites to an hour or two with Ritchen by myself?"_

_Sofia winced, "I owe you one."_

_Sara laughed over the phone, "It's _Ritchen_, you owe me two or three."_

_If the other detectives in the Homicide bullpen noticed her laughing out loud, they didn't say anything. _

"_All right."_

_They had ended the conversation with Sofia promising to keep her posted and that had been that. _

Yeah, that had been that until she'd gotten _the_ call. Jim had been the one to go to the garage that she'd been taken from. She wasn't sure she would have been able to go and keep herself together. She, instead, had gone to Natalie Davis's little shop of horrors. The models, the sketches, the room had reeked of something she could only label as evil. She still had nightmares.

Did she know what Dupree had been talking about? Yes.

* * *

The television droned on, playing out whatever show the TiVo had lined up. She was pretty sure she had both seasons of _Heroes_ recorded and now she actually had time to watch the show. Too bad she didn't feel up to it. She had spent most of her evening aimlessly wandering around her apartment. She_ hated_ not working. Her work defined her, gave her purpose. She missed it, well parts of it at least.

Sara got up on one of her elbows and looked at Riley. He was happily oblivious to what had happened. For him it was just going to be one very long weekend with her. She wished she could be as happy with her end of the situation.

She wished she could blame this funk on just the suspension or just Alex, or even a mix of the two. That would at least make sense. A plus B equals C: A being her suspension, B being the Alex fiasco and C being her funk. Her life was more like trying to quantify the unification theory, utilizing both the theory of relativity and string theory. It was vastly complicated, endlessly complex and would probably take another three decades to figure out. Her life had too many variables and exceptions in it lately.

Her hand strayed to the coffee table and the old acoustic guitar that was lying there. Some would say that the complexities and complications were the spices of life, that they should be savored. On that thought, she sat, then stood up. She walked strait to the bookshelf without wasting a step. She stretched almost on her bare tiptoes to reach a box on the top of the shelf. It was one of the few things that she had kept from childhood. The guitar and the contents of the box in her hands. In the beginning, she had kept her most precious possessions in a cardboard shoebox, then a scarred metal lockbox she had bought at the Salvation Army. She lifted the lid off of the latest box, a beautiful carved walnut box that was lined with velvet. She sat back down on the couch and stared at the box in her hands. It was small, no larger then a cheap DVD player, but-

The knock at the door was so unexpected she fumbled and almost dropped the box.

Riley jerked to attention about thirty seconds too late to be an effective guard dog. Sara put the box on the table beside the guitar and patted Riley's shaggy head as she got up. Undeterred by her command to sit and stay, Riley darted around her legs, tail wagging fast enough to keep time with a heavy metal drummer. "If it's Grissom, we're not opening the door." She put her right hand on the door beside the peep-hole and leaned most of her weight on it. She used the left hand to fend Riley off, "And if it's Catherine, I want you to sic her." She was only half joking. Sara leaned forward and looked to see who it was, and couldn't have been more surprised.

She pushed Riley out of the way, undid the two sliding chains, flipped the three deadbolts, twisted the doorknob lock, kicked the floor latch and opened the door. Sara had to move quickly to make sure her dog didn't knock Sofia on her ass. Riley, after all weighed close to eighty pounds, and Sofia's hands were full. The other woman looked tired, not the zombie like exhaustion of before, but still tired. Sofia's smile slid across her face easily and Sara found herself grinning a little in spite of herself.

"Can I come in or do you want to eat this" She jiggled the box of pizza in her hand, "in the hall?"

Sara blinked, "Oh yes, sorry, please come in."

Sofia maneuvered around Riley and into her apartment with the same apparent ease that she did everything. It couldn't have been _that_ easy, though. She had a six pack of beer in one hand, a large box of take-out pizza and a plain paper bag in the other.

Sara usually cleaned and vacuumed her apartment before she had people over. She took out the trash and made her bed everyday before she left home, religiously. Today, though she hadn't even fluffed a pillow. "Um, ignore the mess. I, um, haven't gotten around to cleaning-this week."

She could have been talking to the wall because Sofia wasn't paying her any mind.

Riley had zeroed in on Sofia, and then the bag she carried, as soon as she walked in. Sara watched the blonde kneel down and open it up for him. Curious, Sara leaned closer to see what Sofia had brought. It was a very large bone that still had chunks of pink ham on it.

Riley was all but on top of Sofia and Sara held back a chuckle, "Do you travel with animal parts all the time or is this a special occasion?"

Sofia didn't immediately answer, because she was paying tug of war with Riley.

Some girls were suckers for candy, and others lived for designer shoes and while Sara appreciated both, the way to her heart definitely was through her dog.

Sofia had her hand around the ball of the dead and eaten pig's shoulder joint, "A special occasion, I swear. My neighbors invited me over for dinner a few nights ago. I couldn't make it, but he sent me a plate of leftovers. So when I decided to come over here, I asked if he still had the bone, for this big guy." Sofia looked up at her and finally let Riley have his prize. "That's all right, isn't it? I know you're a vegetarian, but I figured-"

Sara couldn't help it, she smiled, "It's fine, it will keep him occupied while we're eating."

Sofia stood and looked over at Riley, who had settled on the recliner with his prize, "Spoiled."

Sara closed the door, but didn't throw the locks. She didn't want to look paranoid in front of the other, far more confident, woman. "So what did you bring for us?" Sofia pushed her loose hair over her shoulder, "Large cheese from Chippy's and a six of Sam Adams Light, and wonderful company if I don't say so myself."

Sara chuckled a little nervously, "Naturally. Sit down, please, I'll get some plates."

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Sofia checking on her, but it was flustering to say the least. The boys were easy to deflect or satisfy with simple explanations. Sofia was _different_. She was the kind of different that sent a shiver down her spine, a very good sort of shiver. The kind of shiver that had helped get her in the situation she was in.

Sara paused in the kitchenette, she had momentarily gotten lost in her thoughts about Sofia, and had forgotten what she was looking for. Plates, she was getting plates, who cared if they matched. She couldn't remember the last person she'd had for dinner. Over for dinner, she meant.

She was going to find Alex and kill her for putting these thoughts in her head. Though why the woman had said what she said was a mystery to her. She dished two warm, bubbling, positively mouthwatering slices of pizza onto the plates and looked over at Sofia. The blonde looked far more relaxed then she felt. She was wearing loose stone washed jeans and a baby-blue tee shirt and looked oddly pretty in the odd light of the TV. Sara walked over, careful to step around the basket of laundry that she still had to fold and grinned, "Did I mention that I haven't cleaned today or two days or fourteen-ish?"

Sofia took one of the plates for herself, "Don't worry about it, my condo looks like this most of the time. Being on the job isn't conducive to regular cleaning and I don't make quite enough to hire a cleaning service."

Sara nodded, "Nick does, but I'm pretty sure that' coming from his trust fund, not his paycheck."

Sofia smirked as she chewed, which made the facial expression all the more amusing. After she swallowed the Detective cleared her throat, "I didn't know you played." The woman, detective even off duty, smiled at her and Sara felt her throat start to tighten in panic.

The panic died as quickly as it had flared up. Sofia had proved that she could listen without judging. Besides, what did she have to lose anyway?

"I can't, not well anyway, this is my brother's guitar."

She washed down the bittersweet statement with beer.

Sofia looked around, "I thought Riley was your only roomie."

Sara took a bite of pizza and for a moment, reveled in the mix of flavors on her tongue.

"He is. Jack, my brother, died when I was a kid."

Sofia coughed, and almost choked into her beer. "Oh, I'm sorry." The words that she'd said so many times always sounded hollow and forced but this time it was even more so.

Sara pulled her legs up onto the couch and twisted around to face Sofia. "It's okay, it was a long time ago."

Her hand strayed to the guitar. The case on the floor was battered and peeling apart in some places, she wouldn't trade it for the world. The guitar itself was old and cheaply made, hardly a collector's item. It hadn't been restrung since it had come to her. Beside it was her open memories box. "Those are his journals, there. He was always the right-brained one of the Sidle children. He wrote in his journal all the time, since he was a kid. He was almost twelve years older then me. He was a great guy."

Sofia put her plate down and crossed her legs underneath her, "Sara, I didn't even know you had a brother." She held up a finger, "But Jack, you got stuck with Sahara and he got Jack?"

Sara smiled, "No, he got Jack the same way I got Sara, the principal at Tamales Bay Primary and High School thought something a little normal would help the hippie kids fit in better. His given name was Freedom Jalil Sidle."

Sofia blinked, "I can see why he went with Jack."

Sara smiled a little, "He was great. Jack used to take me into the city, Frisco I mean. We would spend all day down at the pier and he'd open up his case to catch tips and he would play. He loved this guitar and was good with it. I think it's the music I remember most. Most of my memories of Jack are fuzzy, out of focus, but never the music, I can remember that perfectly."

Sofia wiped her greasy hands on her jeans, and nodded at the journals, "May I?"

Sara had read the journals over and over again. Most of her memories probably sprang more from the reading then actual events she had witnessed. They were more precious then gold to her. "Sure."

Sofia took the book off of the top of the small stack and handled it with care. She opened it carefully and saw what Sara had already known, the journal went blank a little over half way through. Sara watched the other woman leaf through it reverently. Sara had read through the words so many times that her late brothers cramped handwriting was as familiar as her own.

She knew it was coming, so she didn't wait for Sofia to see enough to make the correct connections and leaps in reasoning.

"Jack was a true flower child. He was born in a van somewhere between Berkeley and Los Angeles and spent part of his childhood on an honest-to-God commune. By the time I came around, most brothers would have been too cool to mess with me. Not Jack, he was the best part of growing up. He was sure he was going to help change the world."

Sara looked down at her hands, "And he did, I guess. It started back in '75. I don't exactly remember it myself, exactly. I've read over it so many times, though, that I remember it through Jack's eyes. He has this genius line, it always makes me laugh out loud. '1975 was the year that the heathen Sidle children got religion.' It's hard for me to remember that far back, really remember I mean. There are some parts, though, that I recall perfectly, like it all happened yesterday. Memory is funny like that.

Sara stared at her own hands and spoke in a quiet voice that came from a place that was usually hidden away in the back of her mind.

"The secrets, the beatings, the sudden ideas and changes in plans and at the same time there was this feeling of family, of belonging. It was all so normal to the Strange Sidle Siblings. By 1977 my mother had put her foot down on the whole thing. It was one of the few things she did that could be considered parenting." Her voice went flat at the last part, and she paused to bring herself back under control, if only in her own mind. "It also saved my life, because only a few days after she and my brother had this giant fall out."

She paused again, and took a breathe. It was such a hard story to tell. The tale was pieced together, a patchwork memory. It was hard to tell when her own childhood memories stopped and Jack's narrative, her mother's ranting and the media's rundown began.

"Four days later he came and talked to me at school, swore he was coming back for me, that he would come back and take me to Guyana with him to be with Father Jim and our family."

Sofia's only visible reaction was a sharp intake of breathe.

"Then he was gone and I never saw him again. Letters were sporadic at first, then there was nothing at all until it all fell apart. The news reports and pictures and stories, Jack Sidle became notorious in Tamales Bay. He became the local boy who had joined the Death Cult."

Sara stood and Sofia jerked her head up, probably ready to say something. Lucky for them both, Sara didn't go far. The picture frame was on her computer desk. Like most of her memories, the photo was faded and a little yellowed with age. The simple silver frame it was in couldn't hide the wear and tear, she handed it to Sofia. "This is Jack."

She wondered what Sofia saw when she looked at the picture. The photo had been taken on the pier during the summer. Jack's brown hair, several shades lighter then her own, was long, shaggy and hanging in his eyes. His bellbottoms were faded and a little ragged and his shirt was hanging open. He was, like he did in all of her memories, smiling.

"You guys have the same smile."

It was true, she and Jack had gotten the gap between their two front teeth from their mother.

Sofia smiled down at the picture, then looked up, "How old were you in this picture?"

Sara shrugged and finished off her beer, "Five or so."

She watched Sofia do the mental math. Her smile faded when all the numbers fell into columns and the sum equaled up.

"You were so _young_. I didn't lose my father until I was twenty-three. I can't imagine-"

Sara popped the cap on a fresh bottle of beer. "He was a defector, he and his fiancée Hannah. They were shot down with Congressman Leo Ryan and their things were mixed up with the delegation's. My father, Jack's stepfather, told them to burn everything. I got on a bus by myself for the first time and went to claim his things. Most personal belongings were never really recovered or flat out destroyed. Congressman Ryan's sister Patricia took pity on me and gave me Jack's things. I've kept them with me ever since."

Sofia put the picture frame on the coffee table and picked up her beer again.

"That's why you were so adamant about TAN."

Sara nodded, "Alex knew. She was one of the few people that did. Grissom doesn't, it's something I don't talk about allot. I think you're the first person I've told in nearly a decade. God, I don't even know why I'm telling you."

Sofia reached across the empty space on the couch, "Thank you for trusting me with this."

Sara smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's the very least I could do after you stuck your neck out for Alex."

Sofia's hands stiffened around the glass bottle, "You knew?"

Sara settled back against the couch, and shrugged. "Not at first, Carmichael told me while I was watching the interviews."

They lapsed into silence for a minute.

"I heard-" Sara paused, "I heard she got away."

Sofia sighed, "Yeah, yeah she did. I'm sorry you had to go through all of this."

It sounded automatic and spiritless, but it was all she had.

"I don't really want to talk about it, but there is one thing."

Sofia reached for another slice of pizza, "And what's that?"

This time Sara's smile, as small and slightly sad as it may have been, reached her eyes. "I've always trusted you."

Sofia grinned and then chuckled, and before she realized it both she and Sara were outright laughing. They laughed until their sides hurt and they were wheezing for breathe. It was either laugh or cry and both women were tired of tears.

It may have been guilt, or shared manic laughter, just the simple comfort of friendship or something more, but at that moment, neither Sara nor Sofia could think of anyplace in the world they would rather be.


	57. Epilogue

_Author's Note: I do not speak, read or understand Spanish. The following is as close as good as it gets. It's a mish-mash of my rudimentary skills, college text books, dictionaries and the old stand-by, babel-fish. I apologize to the entire Spanish speaking community for the language massacre bellow. Language barrier aside, I am rather pleased with the way this section turned out. _

_Also the lyrics, set off by italics, are from the Season 5 episode _Snakes_. _

_Epilogue_

Chumo tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the musica while he waited in line at the aeropuerto. The richest fares were always the touristas. If he made the Americanos feel taken care of they tipped well. At the end of the day, the tips were what kept his esposa Beatriz happy. When Beatriz was happy, everyone was happy. He scanned the latest group of rumpled travelers coming out of the airport, looking for the best mark. He sang along to the radio in a warbaling baritone to pass the time.

_No me puedes negar_

_Lo que te hago sentir_

_No me puedes negar_

_Lo que sientes por mi_

There were two men, Mexicanos, and Chumo immediately disregareded them. He didn't want the guarda or federales to find drug mules in his taxi. No, that would be muy mal.

_Yo me paso las noches tomando_

_Quierendo olvidar su recuerdo_

_Buena aquella noche maldita_

He spotted two Americans, but immediately dismissed the young couple as well. Not because they were carrying drugs, but because they would only be going as far as the youth hostel. Their ragged mochilas spoke for them. He didn't have the time to drive cheap backpackers around.

_Que por ser poderoso_

_Que mi vida jamas pasaria_

Chumo narrowed his eyes and chose his mark almost as soon as he saw her. She was a rubia, wore a business suit and carried a briefcase and small carry-on bag: a perfect fare.

He popped the clutch and put his taxi into first gear, beating everyone else off the mark.

She was an older woman and she smiled at him when he loaded her bags in his trunk. "Buenas tardes, Senora. " He waited for a moment, to see if she knew how to respond. Most Americans didn't bother to learn a second language even if they went abroad.

"Hola, Senor. Como estas?" She smiled and nodded, obviously at ease with the language.

Chumo opened the back passenger side door for her, "Muy bien, Senora."

He shut the door and went around to the drivers door. He adjusted the mirror and looked back at his fare. "Adonde va, senora?"

The woman ran her fingers through her short, fair locks, "Un hotel, agadable, por favor."

He quickly pulled into the brisk airport traffic and started to work his way towards the road that would lead into Colina proper. He checked her over in the rearview mirror. Between her appearance and the amount of luggage she had told him she was no simple tourista.

"Tu quieres un hotel alededor de la nueva escuela de las muchachas?"

She looked up sharply, her eyes were a dark verde. She seemed surprised that he had picked up on such an obvious fact.

"Si."

Chumo passed a slower moving autobus, and spoke without a hitch in his driving, "Lo sabia. Puedo decir estas cosas. Somos muy orgullosos de la nueva escuela. M hija va a atender. La educacion es muy importante aqui en Colina."

He saw her smile and cross her legs in the backseat, "So muy emocionado ser considerado para la posicion."

Her bag, Chumo noticed, was Prada. One good tip would go a long way to paying for Rosita's tuition.

"Usted sabe, podria tomarle para er al superintendente ahora. El es omo un hermano a mi, y se placeria muy encontrarle."

It was a bit of a stretch, Chumo did know the superintendent, but only because both of their families attended mass together at Santa Maria's. The senora, though, reeked of class, spoke the language and would impress the investors. A beautiful American was exactly what the school needed for a headmistress. If he helped provide a suitable candidate they might wave his daughter's fee.

The beautiful woman smiled, "Si, eso seria maravilloso. Gracias,"

She paused and looked for his licence, "Thomaso."

Chumo chuckled, "Por favor, mi nombre es Chumo."

The woman smiled at her and though he loved Beatriz, her smile enflamed his libido.

"Si, Chumo, y mi nombre es Victoria."

The song continued as he drove towards Senor Miguel's casa.

_Yo soy malo y no puedo negar_

_Que desde me acuerdo_

_No he sido_

_La vieja resulto…mentirosa…_

In the back seat Senora Victoria relaxed against the vinyl seat and watched la cuidad pass by. There was a small smile on the woman's face. He knew a few English phrases and, of course, the curses and generally considered himself learned, but he couldn't figure out what she was laughing about. The corrido began to wind down as he turned towards the school.

_Pero en cambio le robe su vida._

_Otra vibora por ser._

Senora Victoria didn't speak to him the rest of the ride, nor did she call anyone on her telefono. She only muttered to herself in English.

"I bet you never learned Spanish, Sara."

Her work was far from done. Yes, there had been mistakes, costly ones, but she had gotten away clean. She was in Mexico where backgrounds weren't checked and etraditions were few and far between. She spoke the language, and knew the culture. This place, where past and present met and mingled like asphalt roads and dirt-paced alleys was ripe for the taking. Less then a day in-country and she already had a job-prospect. She would bounce back, rebuild and flourish and there was nothing anyone could do to stop her.

To Be Continued In _Mistaken Identity_

_Author's Note II: That was an incredibly long story that took more time to write and post then I imagined. I hope everyone enjoyed it, though. I went through three computers, two operating systems, two beta-readers and two cars between the prologue and the posting of this epilogue. It's been an odd year and some days._

_The next instalment in this three part series will be _Mistaken Identity_. It's going to be a completely different sort of story then this one. It's going to be…a blast._

_Lots of thanks to everyone for reading and especially reviewing! _


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